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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28586601">Where Nothing Is Red</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/preciouslittletime/pseuds/preciouslittletime'>preciouslittletime</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>SEVENTEEN (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Vampire, Artist Xu Ming Hao | The8, Blood Drinking, Gratuitous Mentions of Jeju Oranges, M/M, a little bit of trope subversion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:02:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>22,286</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28586601</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/preciouslittletime/pseuds/preciouslittletime</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Vampires were real, but they were rare. As real as an earthquake, as few and far between.<br/>--<br/>Lee Seokmin asks renowned artist Xu Minghao to paint his portrait.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lee Seokmin | DK/Xu Ming Hao | The8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>203</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Seventeen Rare Pair Fest: 2 Rare 2 Pair</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Part One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">



        <li>In response to a prompt by
            Anonymous in the <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SVTRarePairFest2">SVTRarePairFest2</a>
          collection.
        </li>
    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you to the prompter. I did not intend for this to turn into what it has, I hope you enjoy it despite how much it evolved.</p><p>Thank you to all my friends who supported me while I wrote this. You know who you are.</p><p><strong>Trigger warning:</strong> I have used the graphic depictions of violence archive warning to make it clear that blood, blood drinking, pain, and some mild gore are discussed here. There is also a brief mention of suicide about half way through part one, but does not involve any of the characters or their loved ones.</p><p> </p><p>  <strong>Prompt:</strong></p><p>"Draw me like one of your french girls."<br/>-Vampire Seokmin asks human artist Minghao to show him what he looks like.</p><p>(Blood drinking highly encouraged, any rating).</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Start by wiping the blood off of his chin and </em>
</p><p>
  <em> pretending to understand. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Repeat to yourself </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I won’t leave you, I won’t leave you” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> until you fall asleep and dream of the place </em>
</p><p>
  <em> where nothing is red. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> When is a monster not a monster? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Oh, when you love it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>         - “Start Here” Caitlyn Siehl </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p> </p><p>Minghao’s agent calls him at ten o’clock in the evening. </p><p>He’s standing at the wash basin in his studio. The industrial stainless steel tub, not so stainless with flecks of dry paint and pigment that will never come off. His fingernails are the same way. He shoves them between his teeth and bites down until the keratin bends.</p><p>“I’m only telling you because it’s in the contract that I give you notice of every offer you receive,” Seungkwan sighs into the phone. “But you are <em> not </em> taking this under any circumstances.”</p><p>Behind Minghao, the radio he’s turned on while he’s cleaning drones on with a breaking news update. </p><p>
  <em> The KNPA has announced their findings in the series of attacks in Gwanhun-dong beginning the first week of October. Due to the nature of the attacks, the Crimes Against Humans division of the KNPA had taken the case from Seoul Metropolitan Police in November. </em>
</p><p>“That’s the most money anyone has ever offered for a portrait. What’s his name again? Are you sure it’s legitimate?” Minghao asks. This amount of money could take care of his living expenses for an entire year. Maybe more.</p><p>
  <em> A 37 year-old and a 16 year-old were pronounced dead at the scene. Seven others remain in critical condition.  </em>
</p><p>“Lee Seokmin,” Seungkwan says. “And of course it’s a legitimate offer, hyung, what do you think this is my first day on the job?” he adds haughtily. </p><p>“Lee Seokmin,” he repeats, rolling over the syllables on his tongue, tasting them.</p><p>“His name doesn’t matter because you are not staying in his <em> house </em>. Are you out of your mind?” Seungkwan snaps. </p><p>“You really think he’d kill me after telling you his name and where he lives?” Minghao asks. It would be bold. “We’ve been discussing a new direction. What if this is the direction I should go?”</p><p>
  <em> A representative from the CAH division has released that the missing mother of two, Seong Haewon, is suspected as the perpetrator in these attacks according to CCTV footage and key eye witness accounts. Seong was presumed dead after her disappearance last summer. </em>
</p><p>“It doesn’t matter. As your agent and <em> your friend </em> , you are not spending a month in a vampire’s <em> lair </em> on an island where I can’t get to you if something happens. And a month is generous with the size of the portrait he’s asking for. It’ll put you at a standstill.”</p><p>Minghao can hear Seungkwan on the other side of the phone, pacing around his apartment the way he does when he’s particularly stressed - right before he sells one of Minghao’s paintings, right before an opening. He’s walking a rut into the floor, and Minghao feels curiously calm.</p><p>
  <em> Seong is still at large and considered highly dangerous. Representatives speaking on behalf of the vampire community in Seoul have condemned these attacks in the past and have confirmed their cooperation with KNPA in the investigation. KNPA have announced that Seong’s family was taken into custody, but were released after questioning. </em>
</p><p>“I want to do it,” Minghao says decisively, before he has a chance to change his mind. “Call him back. Tell him I accept.”</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>It’s not about the money. </p><p>For the last three years Minghao has been living with comfortable fame. It was Junhui who had told him that he should focus on realism all those years ago, and Junhui who had called him the second his speed paint video went viral on YouTube.</p><p>Between the first gallery opening and now, he’s been touted as <em> The Foremost Portrait Artist in Asia </em> and <em> proof that portraits don’t exist for the wealthy </em>. His career has been founded on taking ordinary subjects from ordinary backgrounds and revealing them to the pompous art world with the reverence and beauty they deserve. Or at least, that’s what Junhui said after his first gallery showing, sneering at all the wealthiest people in Seoul critiquing Minghao’s work.</p><p>That night a multi-media tycoon bought a piece where one of the maids from the Signiel was sitting in her uniform in the center of the dining room, a spread of champagne and dessert in front of her. Minghao had made so much money Junhui told him he couldn’t be a starving artist anymore. </p><p>Everything changed. Some things for the better, others for the worst. </p><p>Sometimes it feels like something large and unknowable has a thumb held down on Minghao’s back. Pressure. Pressure to be better with every new piece, pressure to be a member of a higher social class, pressure to make something he loves into something that makes him money.</p><p>His flight leaves in the late afternoon and will place him in Jeju just before the sun sets. He has a couple weeks worth of clothes and a hard case full of art supplies. They’ve arranged for the lighting and canvas to be shipped separately. </p><p>He doesn’t tell anyone. Seungkwan’s reaction had been more than enough to gauge how the conversation would go with anyone else who cares about his safety and well-being. Telling anyone the truth would garner a well-founded level of frantic concern. Especially from his mother.</p><p>Instead, he lies. He lands in Jeju-do and sends her text with a photo of the ocean. </p><p>
  <em> Mama doing some painting in Jeju for a few weeks. I love you. </em>
</p><p><em> A portrait? </em> , she asks. <em> Beautiful. Send me more photos. </em></p><p><em> No, not a portrait. Just a vacation, </em> he texts her. <em> I will. </em></p><p> </p><p>...</p><p> </p><p>The first time he learned about vampires it was through his grandmother. She had called them <em> jiangshi </em> and told him that he should carry the blood of a black dog to keep them at bay. His mother had told him that the blood was only a superstition and that there weren’t any vampires in Anshan. </p><p>At eight years old his mother finally explained to him that many, many years ago - before even his great-grandmother was born - people used to believe that vampires were a myth. Like ghosts or faeries. That people had learned the truth when an important man they thought was dead had come back to life, because, back then, people used to bury the people who had died in the ground instead of burning them. </p><p>Vampires were real, but they were rare. As real as an earthquake, as few and far between. And as difficult to detect until the moment you experienced one for yourself.</p><p>It had been an incredibly difficult concept to grasp. Minghao asked far too many questions that his mother couldn’t answer. No, she had never seen one. Yes, they can’t go outside during the day so he would always be safe then. No, she didn’t know if they were scary up close. Yes, if he ever met one, he should come home immediately. </p><p>He learned to stop asking those types of pondering questions. Even as a little boy he could see that the topic was troubling to her. How do you explain to your child that one day, out of nowhere, a normal looking person on the street could see him as a meal? </p><p>As an adult, he understands now how afraid she was then. Fear does strange things to kind people. His mother would take the shirt off of her back to clothe a stranger. She had taught him to do the same. She also taught him to say the word <em> shuǐzhì </em> with the right inflection, how to get the syllables to cut your lips as you spoke them.</p><p>When he came to Seoul when he was eighteen, Soonyoung had explained which neighborhoods were the ones to stay away from. <em> It’ll go to jail for attacking you, but that’s only if they catch it. </em>Soonyoung said he’d seen one up close and its eyes scared him so much he still had nightmares. </p><p>Minghao had never met one. </p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>He’s done bolder things than this. Weathered his father’s disappointment when he said he wouldn’t be attending the university he’d been accepted to. Moved to Seoul with Junhui when the only full Korean sentences he knew were <em> I am from China </em> and <em> I have no money </em>. Once, he even gave an interview on American television and tried to explain complicated art concepts to more viewers than there were people in his hometown. </p><p>Lee Seokmin lives in a modernist, massive single family home made of concrete and glass. It sits on the western edge of the island, a few kilometers from the town of Sinchang, directly across the highway from the coastline dotted with wind turbines. They kick up gusts that make the dry grass in the fields around the house whisper and hiss.</p><p>Minghao stands at the door, looking up at the sky where the sun has finally disappeared, and he hesitates. </p><p>Most people wouldn’t call this boldness. They would call it recklessness and tell Minghao to get his affairs in order before he walked through the door. Minghao doesn’t consider himself to be reckless, but he doesn’t consider himself to be fearful. </p><p>Fear, he thinks, is what makes people stagnant. Perspective is invaluable and shares an economy with things like fear.</p><p>Great artists made themselves uncomfortable. Great people did, too. </p><p>He reminds himself of that fact before he knocks.</p><p>It’s impossible for him to have known what Seokmin looked like before seeing him in person. Vampires were said to be cursed - no reflection, no image on camera. So unless you’d seen one in person, the only portrayals of vampires were by actors playing the part, or by drawings. Neither of which were particularly gracious depictions.</p><p>The man who answers the door doesn’t look any older than his mid-twenties. He has a stunning, burnished gold tone to his skin that betrays his inability to touch sunlight. Minghao remarks on the color theory, the contrast of his skin against a white t-shirt and dark wash jeans. </p><p>He’s tall and lean, broad shoulders and thin-wrists and tapered waist. His facial features make Minghao itch for his sketchbook. Handsome. Maybe even one of the most handsome men Minghao has ever seen so close.</p><p>The fangs are unmistakable, though, and Minghao can’t stop staring. Two sharp cuspids that stick out from the rest of his pristine white teeth as he smiles. The peak, dip, peak of a heartbeat on a monitor.</p><p>“Hello,” Seokmin says. His smile disappears like he’s suddenly remembered he has fangs. He glances to the side and then up at Minghao’s face like an apology. “Xu Minghao?”</p><p>Minghao means to say hello back. What he says instead is: “My name…”</p><p>He’s gotten used the mottled way everyone pronounces it. The only person he knows in Seoul who gets it right is Junhui, but he only ever calls him Xiao Hao and “<em> zhīzhū </em>”.</p><p>Hearing his name is a quick shock to the system that makes him forget about looking at Seokmin’s teeth. Instead, he looks Seokmin in the eyes and watches them crinkle when he laughs.</p><p>“I also speak Mandarin.” Seokmin slips into it effortlessly. “Not very well. I can um….” He lapses back to Korean. “I don’t remember the word for <em> pronounce </em>.”</p><p>“That’s okay,” Minghao laughs without realizing. “I’m okay with us speaking Korean.”</p><p>Minghao offers his hand and Seokmin takes it, shaking it with a level of enthusiasm Minghao isn’t expecting. Seokmin beams. “I can’t believe you’ve agreed to this. I know it’s a lot to ask. Weeks away from your studio. When your agent let me know you accepted I couldn’t believe it. I never thought you’d say yes. But - god I’m sorry, I’m rambling.”</p><p>“It’s my pleasure,” Minghao says softly. Seokmin’s hand isn’t cold to the touch like he’d been led to believe it would be.</p><p>Seokmin motions with his hand. “Come in.”</p><p>It’s not a lair. It’s not the house of an antisocial blood drinking monster who kidnaps humans to preserve his immortality like the movies always show. The house is normal for all intents and purposes - aside from the display of wealth and the curtains covering the windows preventing any sunlight from sneaking in like an intruder. The house seems as if it’s been well lived in; an unorganized pile of shoes by the door and photos on the walls that are hung slightly crooked. </p><p>“I’m really sorry about the mess,” Seokmin cringes. He turns back as Minghao is slipping off his shoes and helps drag his parade of suitcases through the foyer. “This is immaculately clean if you can believe it.”</p><p>The house is as large as Seokmin had promised Seungkwan. With three stories, Seokmin and Minghao won’t even have to sleep on the same floor. Seokmin helps him lug all the suitcases up the stairs, clumsily knocking the little caster wheels against every step on the staircase. He shows Minghao his room for the next month, which is neat and serene with the curtains drawn back and floor to ceiling windows with a view of the ocean across the highway.</p><p>Seokmin talks through the entire house tour like he’s incapable of stopping himself. Oddly excited to point out his friend’s photography on the walls and the little souvenirs he keeps from all over the world. He explains each one, the story and the place it was from and the person who’d gifted it to him.  He tells Minghao all about the interior designer he’d hired that he never told about being a vampire and how navy paint helps the house seem darker during the day time.</p><p>The last place they visit is the study on the ground floor, which Seokmin has turned into a temporary studio. It’s nearly floor to ceiling with bookshelves packed full with different colored spines in varying states of decay, collections of mostly clutter, and an interspersed number of landscape photographs like the ones placed all over the house.  </p><p>The canvas is enormous, 200 centimeters tall and 160 centimeters wide as discussed. Minghao stands in front of it where it’s positioned facing away from the studio lights set up to illuminate the center of the room. Seokmin touches the side of it, dwarfed by it. There’s a ladder leaning against the wall so Minghao can get paint up to the very top corners.</p><p>“I’m not sure if your agent had mentioned,” Seokmin says, looking straight at the canvas. “I don’t want to see it until it’s done. If that’s alright?”</p><p>Minghao offers a reassuring smile. “Of course,” he says. It’s the first thing he’s gotten to add to the conversation aside from humming noises of acknowledgment. “Whatever you want.”</p><p>“And whatever you need I’ll have ordered for you. Even if it’s not for the portrait. Your agent had mentioned that we wouldn’t have sittings every day while the layers dry.” Seokmin rubs his lips together. “I want you to be comfortable here. I know it’s not ideal...you having to stay here with me.”</p><p>“Thank you, Seokmin-ssi.”</p><p>“Oh,” Seokmin says suddenly. He points to the other side of the room. “That’s one of yours.”</p><p>Not noticing it feels like missing an old friend standing in a crowd because you’ve forgotten their face. It’s large and loud and bright. A relic of the begone era of when he’d still been doing vivid abstract pieces to work through the tumultuousness of his early twenties. It was never shown in a gallery, but was auctioned two years ago for charity - Minghao can’t recall the sum, but he knows it was hefty.</p><p>“Wow,” Minghao exhales, walking towards it. “<em> You </em> bought this?”</p><p>The canvas is splashed poppy oranges from the bottom up into a cerulean blue sky like impossible flowers sprouting at the bottom of the ocean. The stems are a pure white and flecks of orange paint are scattered around like falling petals. It’s messy and interpretive and wholly representative of just how much he wanted to burst out of his own skin ten years ago. And certainly nothing like the refined, hyper-realistic portraits he’s become famous for.</p><p>“I’m a little embarrassed,” Minghao says, running his fingers through his hair. “This is one of the first pieces I’d ever really done.”</p><p>Seokmin tuts. “I think it’s better than half the stuff they have hanging at the Louvre.”</p><p>Minghao laughs breathlessly. “Well I don’t know about that…”</p><p>“It’s true,” Seokmin says resolutely. “I’ve been there. Didn’t like most of it.”</p><p>Minghao laughs and Seokmin’s eyes twinkle. </p><p>“It’s why I wanted to hire you. I really don’t know much about art. But you’re my favorite artist.” Seokmin’s voice drops into something small and sweet like sugar cubes being dropped into a teacup.</p><p>Minghao turns to Seokmin where he’s come to stand at Minghao’s side. His profile is perfect and sharp. If Minghao paints Seokmin head on, he’ll never quite capture all of him. You’d never know how perfectly pointed his nose is, how his jaw squares off near his earlobes at an elegant angle.</p><p>“Thank you,” Minghao says earnestly. </p><p>Seokmin’s eyes are wide and wondrous as he looks at the impossible poppy field. The color orange is strong and vibrant enough to reflect on his face like a sunset.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>“I made gamjatang. I hope that’s alright.”</p><p>The kitchen smells like hot peppers. It’s the cleanest room in the house. “That’s really...that’s nice of you. Thank you.” Minghao says, taken aback. </p><p>“I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to cook,” Seokmin continues. He slides a full bowl across the marbled countertop of the kitchen island. There’s already a place setting there. “I like cooking. I haven’t done it in...” He sighs, looking up and muttering a few numbers under his breath. “Three decades or so. I made a lot. I couldn’t really remember how much would be enough for one person.”</p><p>Minghao sits at the stool slowly. There’s a pot on the stove top with enough stew to feed several people. He studies Seokmin’s face warily. “Are you...um....going to eat, too?”</p><p>Seokmin’s smile evaporates. “Oh…” He crosses his arms across his chest protectively. “No.” </p><p>Minghao shrinks into himself. Based on Seokmin’s reaction, it doesn’t seem like it was a very appropriate question. “Sorry. I didn’t mean...”</p><p>“No, no. It’s okay,” Seokmin says softly. Rushed, as if he’s worried he’s insulted Minghao in some way and not the other way around. “I’m sure you have questions. I’m used to people being curious”</p><p>Minghao stares at him and only realizes how his mouth is hanging open by the way his tongue sticks to his palate when he tries to swallow. Seokmin offers him another smile. Closed lipped. Nose pointing downwards. No fangs.</p><p>Minghao eats so he can break eye contact. The warmth chases away the residual chill he has from standing out in the coastal wind. It’s good. He tells Seokmin as much, but can’t really bring himself to look up to say it.</p><p>When he first signed with Seungkwan, he was grateful for somebody else to be the one to talk to strangers. Minghao hadn’t ever been particularly adept at holding a conversation with a person he didn’t know. And those were with <em> people </em>, this was uncharted territory. If cultural differences still tripped him up, species differences would be like scaling a wall.</p><p>“I know this is…” Seokmin sighs, leaning against the countertop. “Your agent said you’d never met anyone like me before. So, if you want to ask me things. I mean...whatever comes to mind. I won’t get offended.”</p><p>Minghao mentally flicks through the hundreds of questions he has been filing away since he’d received the call. Before then, even. When he was little and curious and nobody could ever quite explain anything in a satisfying way. </p><p>“How old are you?” he asks first. It’s a good place to start. A facsimile of small talk with a broader purpose.</p><p>Seokmin winces. “It’s hard to figure out. I’m bad at keeping track and there were calendar changes and all that. But I was born in Seoul. Or...well it’s Yongin now. Sometime around 1500.”</p><p>Minghao gapes at him, fingers limply holding onto the spoon in his hand. “Wow,” he says quietly. “I didn’t expect you to be…”</p><p>“Old?” Seokmin laughs far, far too loudly. Like it’s a source of endless entertainment for him. “I’m technically twenty-three. It makes the honorifics system a nightmare though, so we don’t have to use any of that. It’s just really confusing - being older and younger than somebody at the same time. I mean, you can call me <em> hyung </em>if you really wanted to. If you don’t...I won’t tell anyone you’re being impolite. Nobody keeps secrets like the dead.”</p><p>Minghao laughs an ugly snort. Which makes Seokmin smile, bright and happy. He leans forward on the countertop a little more, peeking into Minghao’s bowl before resting his chin on his palm. “I died when I was twenty-three. Obviously. Hence why I’m still twenty-three.”</p><p>“Do you think about it that way?” Minghao asks. “As dying?”</p><p>Seokmin shrugs. “Don’t know what else to call it. Some others don’t think about it that way. I do.”</p><p>Minghao wants to know the details, and Seokmin doesn’t seem like he’d be uncomfortable with the question, but Minghao isn’t sure how to respectfully ask a person about the circumstances of their death and subsequent return from the dead. He flips the broth over on his spoon, watching it cascade down the curved back. “Eating...I guess that’s the one you get asked about most.”</p><p>“Of course,” Seokmin quirks an eyebrow. He smiles in a way that seems bitter, halfway between a grimace and a grin.  “It’s <em> the </em> thing everyone always wants to know.”</p><p>Minghao swallows another spoonful of broth. “It’s probably because we don’t know how it works.”</p><p>“Not many of us understand it either. And it’s different for everyone. Just like eating for people is, too, I guess. Some people can go longer without a meal. Some people eat more than others.”</p><p>“And you?” </p><p>“I can go about two weeks before some of the side-effects set in.”</p><p>“Side effects?” </p><p>Seokmin frowns. “Ah, I don’t want to scare you. I never let it go that long.” Seokmin glances down at the bowl and smiles timidly. “I don’t want to spoil your dinner talking too much about it.”</p><p>“I’m not very squeamish,” Minghao argues. “Blood doesn’t bother me.”</p><p>“Me neither,” Seokmin laughs through his nose. “Sorry...that was a bad joke.”</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>Seokmin will sleep until sunset. Minghao knows that much about vampires. </p><p>Seokmin’s mystical biology will call him to rest when the sun touches the horizon at dawn and call him to wake when the sun slides below it in the evening. Minghao isn’t sure of the specifics, but an internet search reported that vampires were afraid of the sun, that their need to hide from it was out of fear. He’s not sure how accurate it is, but the heavy curtains around the house suggest it might be at least partly true.</p><p>During the daytime, the house is quiet and dark. It feels as if it were nighttime. The curtains on every window prevent the sunshine from bleeding through, painstakingly mounted above the windows that not even the slightest glow of the daytime ekes out from around the edges.</p><p>Minghao’s freedom during the daylight hours allows him to walk to the cafe in Sinchang. He carries his art supplies on his back, wears a sturdier pair of lace up boots for the walk down the dusty path and up along the highway that borders the coastline.</p><p>He jettisons himself out onto the charcoal black rocks revealed by the receding tide and settles as comfortably as he can to fill a fresh sketchbook. He takes pictures, too. But nothing makes an image stick in your mind like drawing it on paper, filling out each pockmark in the volcanic rock, each white cap on the wave, the glint of the propellers of the wind turbines spinning in the late afternoon sun.</p><p>It’s beautiful for the landscape, as well as the details. The scenery is made up of fine brush strokes and vivid color. The winter sun burns through a layer of sunscreen. Minghao can feel the sting of it on his skin. He breathes in deep until the smell of sea salt and a low tide blends deep in his lungs. Cars whiz by on the highway and alongside it, the walking path is a frenzy of passing activity; bicyclists of varying speeds, children screeching in their strollers, families on holiday who take and retake photos because their hair keeps whipping on the repetitive gusts of wind.</p><p>It occurs to Minghao that Seokmin has never seen any of it.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>“So what’s he like?” Seungkwan says into the phone. He’s breathless, Minghao can tell he must be walking somewhere in a hurry. Seungkwan is never <em> not </em> in a hurry, but that’s what makes him so competent at his job.</p><p>Minghao keeps his voice low on the phone. It’s not quite nighttime, but he’s not sure how well Seokmin can hear. Even if he’s still asleep. </p><p>“He’s...lively. Talkative. But he’s nice. He cooked for me.”</p><p>“By comparison, I’m sure most people seem talkative to you,” Seungkwan teases. “What did he cook you?” he asks, not bothering to hide his disgust.</p><p>“Gamjatang. It was really good.”</p><p>“Gamjatang? Did <em> he </em>eat it?”</p><p>“No. He says it makes him sick if he eats normal food.”</p><p>“Did he eat blood in front of you?” Seungkwan asks. Less accusatory and more like an overbearing parent asking their child if the other children at school are bullying him. </p><p>“Seungkwan,” Minghao chides. </p><p>“I can’t believe there’s vampires on Jeju. I don’t know what to tell my mom.”</p><p>“Seungkwan,” Minghao tries again.</p><p>“The second he makes you feel uncomfortable, I’ll put you on a plane. The contract has an out for you.”</p><p>“Seungkwan,” Minghao says more sternly. ‘I’m fine. I promise.”</p><p>He could tell him more. He should. Seungkwan will cluck around him like this until he knows he’s safe. But, he also knows that no matter what he tells Seungkwan - or anyone he knows, for that matter - nothing will change how they see Lee Seokmin. Seungkwan isn’t asking about Seokmin because he cares to know about him, he’s asking because he’s disgusted by him.</p><p>The realization is oppressive and frustrating, like sticking your arm into a jacket sleeve wrong and getting it stuck. Minghao isn’t sure why he feels so protective of him. </p><p>Seungkwan barrels through the protest. “The second he does something. I’ll put you on a plane within the  hour.”</p><p> </p><p>...</p><p> </p><p>Seokmin cooks dinner again and refuses Minghao’s help because he’s a guest and it wouldn’t be polite. </p><p>Minghao nearly reminds him that Seokmin said himself that being polite wasn’t necessary. He doesn’t. Instead, he sits at the counter and watches Seokmin narrate each step of the process to himself - only pausing to hum along to whatever song is stuck in his head that Minghao doesn’t recognize.</p><p>He’s fascinating to watch like this. His house slippers make scratching noises on the tile, wet-earth toned hair getting frizzy on the ends as it dries under the warmth of the heater raging through the house. To anyone who didn’t already know what Seokmin was, it would be easy to mistake him for an ordinary person. Most things about him, from the way he dresses to the way he talks, are completely human.</p><p>They head to the make-shift studio after dinner, Minghao sits across the room from him in a chair dragged from the under-used dining room. Since Minghao can’t take any pictures, he hasn’t really had the time to familiarize himself with Seokmin’s face. Instead, he decides to do some sketches.</p><p>This is where Minghao feels most in his element. Seokmin, on the other hand, looks like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world.</p><p>“You look afraid,” Minghao says with a soft smile. “It’s only practice. Just relax.”</p><p>He tucks one leg up underneath himself and settles his sketchbook in his lap with pencil on the page. Seokmin surveys him from the other side of the room like Minghao’s the natural predator and <em> he’s </em> the prey.</p><p>“Do I have to pose?” he asks. His back is ramrod straight with both socked feet planted firmly on the floor. Minghao doesn’t know much about vampire behavior, but he can’t imagine that anyone is comfortable like that.</p><p>“No,” he says. “You can be natural, but just don’t fidget too much. I’m just sketching.”</p><p>“I’m bad at not fidgeting,” Seokmin says with a frown. He settles back on the chair he’s in, pinching at his lips until his fangs poke out from the corner of his mouth. After a moment he says, “Do you think it would be okay if we talked?”</p><p>Minghao isn’t really one for talking while he’s working. But for some reason, he says, “We can.”</p><p>Minghao tries to catch Seokmin’s fingers pinching his lips before he moves them, rushing to roughly sketch out the lines of Seokmin’s hands. His fingers are long and graceful, betraying to the noticeable bulk of his frame hidden underneath an oversized t-shirt and baggy sweatpants. </p><p>“Maybe...tell me about yourself,” Seokmin says immediately, dropping his hand away from his mouth.</p><p>Minghao smiles to himself. “Sort of like our questions last night?” </p><p>“Yeah. Maybe we could trade off questions? Get to know one another?”</p><p>“Alright. You go first, Seokmin-ah.”</p><p>Seokmin considers his question with seriousness. Minghao draws his fingers around the curve of his chin in thought. He’s so expressive it’s impossible to draw him looking one way before he’s moving on to the next emotion. Minghao doesn’t know if he’s ever met somebody who expresses themselves so openly.</p><p>“I saw you brought a lot of books with you. What do you like to read?”</p><p>Minghao draws the lines bracketing Seokmin’s mouth. They’re little parentheses that get deeper when he pronounces certain syllables. </p><p>“Mostly poetry,” Minghao says. “I’m not very good at reading Korean, so they’re all in Chinese.”</p><p>Seokmin hums and gets Minghao to list off every author, every book, every collection. Then, he gets him to talk about Anshan and his favorite Chinese restaurant in Seoul and his parents and where he would like to live if he could live anywhere else in the world.</p><p>Seokmin is surprisingly good at getting him to speak - which is no small feat. He asks follow up questions with the sort of interest Minghao might find disingenuous in some people. Seokmin on the other hand seems genuinely interested and he’s easier to talk to than Minghao had anticipated. More than that, he’s enjoyable to talk to.</p><p>Minghao draws haphazard guidelines so he can start filling in the bulk of Seokmin’s shoulders and chest. They shake when Seokmin laughs. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s your turn for a question.”</p><p>“It’s probably going to be silly to you but-”</p><p>“No it won’t,” Seokmin answers before Minghao has the time to finish. The t-shirt on paper is sloppy, he’s more focused on Seokmin’s bony elbows poking out anyways. He hesitates on the left one, where it’s resting on the arm of the chair. </p><p>“Well,” Minghao starts again. “You know there are myths right? My grandmother used to make me carry around a vial of black dog’s blood when I was little…”</p><p>Seokmin looks suddenly put out. “I love dogs.”</p><p>Minghao giggles. “So it’s a myth?”</p><p>“Yes,” Seokmin almost seems appalled, except there’s a smile plucking at the corners of his mouth. “Completely.”</p><p>“And the one where if I dropped rice on the floor you’d have to stop to pick it all up?”</p><p>Seokmin laughs and claps midair. Minghao would scold him for moving if hearing him laugh like that - boisterous and goofy - didn’t make him laugh, too. “What?” Minghao nearly whines. “You said it wouldn’t be silly.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Seokmin says, laugh spiralling down until he composes himself. “It’s not it’s just - I’m the messiest person I know. I’d probably kick all the rice under the fridge or something.”</p><p>“Roosters?”</p><p>“I can’t believe people still follow these old stories.”</p><p>They stay smiling at one another. Minghao shakes his head and looks back down at the book in his lap, placing his pencil into position again. “It seems like there are a lot of myths then.”</p><p>Seokmin gives him a toothy grin. “The only things I’m afraid of are fires and ghosts.”</p><p>“Ghosts aren’t real,” Minghao laughs under his breath.</p><p>“You don’t know that,” Seokmin frowns. “I’m literally dead walking. It’s possible.”</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>Minghao wakes up to somebody in the house who is not Seokmin. </p><p>He pads downstairs, ready to take a walk along the water, only to find a grey haired woman rifling through the cupboards. She turns as soon as she hears Minghao enter, and Minghao skids to a stop.</p><p>“Oh, hello, Minghao-ssi,” she says with a soft smile. </p><p>“Hello,” Minghao says. More of a question than answer.</p><p>“I’m Mrs. Kim,” she nods towards him before returning to what she’d been doing before. “I live down the road. I run errands for Mr. Lee.”</p><p>Minghao takes stock of the shopping bags piled on the countertop. Some are empty, some are still full with brightly colored packaging. Minghao peeks into one of them while her back is still turned. “It’s nice to meet you.”</p><p>She turns over her shoulder as she tucks more packages into the cupboard, struggling to reach the shelf. Minghao rushes around the island to help her. “Let me.”</p><p>“Thank you.” Her eyes scrunch up at the corners and Minghao counts the folds. She must be in her sixties or seventies.</p><p>“Is this all for me?” he says, surveying the food as she starts to unpack another bag. </p><p>“Your agent had sent a list of some of the things you liked. I told Mr. Lee that he didn’t have to buy so much, but he insisted you be well fed. Such a worrier.”</p><p>Minghao flushes, tucking his hands behind his back. He stares at the food again and he’s pretty certain that he couldn’t eat through all of it even if he were here for two months. “Oh,” he says dumbly. “That’s very thoughtful of him. Thank you for delivering it.”</p><p>She waves her hand in the air. “It’s no bother to me. Mr. Lee is very generous.”</p><p>“You run his errands?”</p><p>Mrs. Kim makes an affirmative noise as she tucks a handful of oranges into a bowl on the counter. “These are oranges from the tree in my yard. And he hardly ever asks for anything. He never has guests. Let alone ones who eat.”</p><p>“So you know he’s…” Minghao starts, tapering off as his face floods with embarrassment. She turns to look at him expectantly. </p><p>“Of course,” she says like it’s obvious. The kindly admonishing tone in her voice makes Minghao think the answer must be obvious. </p><p>He knows that many, many people over the years have had fairly normal relationships with vampires. It’s not something they readily admit to, but Minghao knows it’s for their protection. Though it does make sense. Vampires can’t go out during the day, most require some sort of proxy. He just assumed that if Seokmin <em> did </em> have someone, it wouldn’t be his elderly neighbor.</p><p>He knows Seokmin is older than her by several centuries. Mrs. Kim has valleys of wrinkles around her eyes, cloud white hair and age spots like freckles on her cheeks. Yet, Seokmin had been alive for hundreds of years before she was even born and Minghao looks at her with all the reverence reserved for somebody with so much more life experience he has. </p><p>He hasn’t <em> really </em> considered how old Seokmin is. Or, how young Seokmin must think Minghao is. Seokmin must think of him like a child.</p><p>“The oranges,” Mrs. Kim says. “Don’t let them fool you. They’re sweeter than most.”</p><p> </p><p>...</p><p> </p><p>The make-shift studio is blanketed with drop cloths to protect the flooring. Walking across them feels like quicksand under Minghao’s bare feet. </p><p>He’s wearing his trusty pair of coveralls over his clothes, proudly displaying the dots of stray paint from past portraits like battle scars. They’re a little too warm in the small space and glow of the studio lighting, so Minghao rolls them to his elbows before positioning Seokmin how he wants.</p><p>“You moved around so much before. Do you think you can stay still like this?” Minghao asks. Their relationship has thawed quickly, and Minghao feels comfortable with joking, but he recedes on himself when he notices that Seokmin isn’t smiling.</p><p>“I hope so,” Seokmin says quietly. He closes his eyes as soon as Minghao gets close again.</p><p>He’s shaking, muscles tensing and quivering. So much so that Seokmin’s fingers laced together in front his belly look more like claws than they do hands. Minghao glances downwards and then back up to Seokmin’s face. </p><p>“Seokmin-ah,” Minghao starts, being as gentle as possible. It’s a tone that Seungkwan says is condescending, but Seokmin responds by unclenching his jaw. “You seem very nervous.”</p><p>Seokmin peeks open one eye. “I am.”</p><p>Minghao takes a respectable step back. “The only thing I am doing today is adding the background color and the lines for your proportions. We’ll take breaks when you feel antsy.” Minghao keeps talking as he tries to position Seokmin’s body. Like a doctor distracting a child while trying to give him a vaccine. “I’m keeping the pose simple because I can’t take reference pictures. But I’d like to do a few smaller sketches today so we don’t forget the details.”</p><p>Seokmin’s shoulders slightly release their tension and he puffs out his breath through a puckered up mouth. “Okay.”</p><p>“Okay?’ Minghao says, keeping his hands on Seokmin’s shoulders. It’s an overfamiliar level of contact, beyond what’s necessary to pose him, but Seokmin appears more relaxed the more Minghao touches him.</p><p>“Okay,” Seokmin repeats. </p><p>“Good. You’ll be great”</p><p>Seokmin smiles with one corner of his mouth. It’s self-deprecating, but there’s a shine to his eyes that makes Minghao assume he’s grateful for the reassurance.</p><p>Minghao returns to the canvas and begins siphoning out the paint now that he’s the reference he needs. He taps the canvas with his fingertips to be sure the gesso has dried before he starts to mix the slate greys and greens he wants to use for the background. </p><p>“I’m nervous because…” Seokmin starts. Minghao pops up his head from where he’s mixing his paints in his lap, scraper hovering expectantly. </p><p>“Go on, Seokmin-ah,” he says. </p><p>“I’m nervous because,” Seokmin sighs, chest heaving and expanding before collapsing in on itself. “I don’t know what I look like.”</p><p>Minghao opens his mouth and then snaps it shut again. “What do you mean you don’t know what you look like?”</p><p>Seokmin shrinks, shoulders caving forward and falling out of the position they were placed in. He stares at the floor. “I mean that I’ve never seen myself before.”</p><p>“Even before you didn’t have a reflection?”</p><p>Seokmin shakes his head slowly. “I saw my reflection, but never in a mirror. I don’t really remember.”</p><p>“Nobody ever...drew you? Or painted you?”</p><p>Seokmin shakes his head again. He bites on his lip, skin going white where his fangs are creating pressure. He looks like he’s ashamed of it, as if it’s something to be humiliated about. </p><p>Minghao can’t figure out what to say. </p><p>The idea of it is slightly hard to digest. His thoughts snag on how Seokmin appears on the surface. How handsome he is. Seokmin has no frame of reference for what clothes look best on him, the best way for his hair to sit, what sort of way to smile will compliment him. And still, he’s one of the most handsome people Minghao has ever seen. Minghao can only assume Seokmin has been <em> told </em> that he’s handsome, but Seokmin also seems like the type of person who wouldn’t believe anyone who said it.</p><p>But then, another thought. Seokmin has asked <em> him </em> to paint him and painting Seokmin means that Minghao will be the first person to show Seokmin how he looks. It feels like a punch to the stomach, winding Minghao temporarily so he can’t speak. </p><p>It’s an amount of trust that Minghao can’t calculate. Trust that he could never imagine putting in any single person, let alone a stranger.</p><p>“And you...you want me to be the one to show you,” Minghao says. He doesn’t mean to be so quiet, but his lungs feel like they’re contracting.</p><p>“Yes,” Seokmin says. He gives Minghao a half-hearted, closed lipped grin. “I’d been thinking about it for years. Your portraits...they’re so...it’s like a photograph.”</p><p>Minghao knows his cheeks are going pink so he looks down. “Thank you.”</p><p>“I’m sorry I didn’t say it on the phone to your agent. I should have told you.”</p><p>“It’s okay,” Minghao says. He sets his paint and scraper to the side. “Thank you.” He makes eye contact to be sure Seokmin understands. “Thank you for trusting me.”</p><p>Seokmin blinks, like he’s not sure if he should say <em> you’re welcome </em>. Instead he says, “Thank you for taking the commission. I honestly didn’t think that you would.”</p><p>“I’m glad I did,” Minghao says, offering him a smile. </p><p>Seokmin on canvas begins his life as a series of primitive lines. Seokmin in the center of the room does not sit still.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>On days where they don’t paint, they’re like roommates. Minghao hasn’t had one since Junhui. He forgets how nice it is to have somebody around. </p><p>He fills the time with his own books or ones from Seokmin’s study-turned-studio, or sits with Seokmin while Seokmin fills his own time. Minghao learns that despite Seokmin’s lack of artistic talent - he had tried once, evidently, a long time ago - he’s <em> musically </em>talented to a degree that only somebody who has lived hundreds of years could possibly reach. Junhui would probably want to break Seokmin’s fingers if he heard how well Seokmin could play piano. </p><p>Those moments make Minghao feel like he’s known Seokmin for years. Seokmin gets serious and devotes a level of concentration to playing songs that he doesn’t devote to many other things. But sometimes he will break that concentration to look over his shoulder to see if Minghao is watching. When they make eye contact, Seokmin smiles and tucks his chin in this strange way. Bashful and sweet. It makes Minghao lose his place in his book, every time, without fail.</p><p>On certain days though, Seokmin spends hours on the phone. Minghao does his best not to listen, but Seokmin is the loudest person he’s ever met, and louder still when he has conversations with people he’s close to. </p><p>Seokmin always apologizes when he’s done. Because he’s spectacularly self-aware and endlessly anxious about offending Minghao in some way. Minghao always says he doesn’t mind it. Seokmin always takes that as a sign Minghao wants to be updated on the whereabouts of the people on the phone. Minghao always listens, because he learns that he likes it when Seokmin talks.</p><p>“Mingyu is upset because his apartment in Seoul doesn’t allow pets. Apparently, he and his boyfriend, Seungcheol, want a dog,” Seokmin explains. He fixes Minghao a cup of tea without asking Minghao if he wanted one. “It was funny because Seungcheol yelled in the background that technically the apartment doesn’t allow vampires either.”</p><p>Minghao watches Seokmin pour the water into the mug. His fingers are so long they almost touch around the circumference of it. “Is Seungcheol a vampire, too?” he asks.</p><p>“Oh, no. He’s a human.”</p><p>“Is that...typical?”</p><p>Seokmin brings Minghao his tea on the other side of the kitchen island where he’s sitting. “Oh, yes, very. Lots of us have relationships with people.”</p><p>Minghao blows the steam off the top where it’s rising in swirling clouds. He eyes Seokmin’s expression as it falls, and he makes an easy assumption. “But not you?”</p><p>Seokmin glances at him and gives him a pitiful excuse for a laugh. Nothing like the peals of it he’d heard less than an hour ago. “No. Not me. Not like that, at least.”</p><p>Minghao thinks about all the stories he’s read about people killing themselves, hoping that the curse would take them in the end. There was a highly controversial book a few years back about a woman who commits suicide to be with her immortal vampire lover. The book, like real life, didn’t end with the human getting any more time alive than what they were allowed in the first place.</p><p>One look at Seokmin’s downturned lips reveals his position on the matter.</p><p>“Are they getting the dog?” Minghao asks, changing the subject.</p><p>Seokmin snaps back like an elastic band, smile stretching his cheeks. “Do you want to see? She’s a rescue. Her name is Sweet Potato.”</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>One of the first positive reviews Minghao had received on an exhibit described his work as “marriage”. </p><p><em> Seo Myungho gives a piece of his soul to his subjects. The subjects return it. In this way, his portraits are not unlike a marriage. Two bodies, coming together as one, in a union on canvas </em>.</p><p>Minghao feels like he tucks a piece of himself into the blocks of color that will someday become Seokmin. They’re sienna and olive and cream now. But soon they will be his eyes and nose and fingers and arms. </p><p>One day, he hopes that Seokmin will see Minghao peeking through the dried layers and textures. Seokmin will outlive him, as will this painting. Minghao hopes they stay together for a long time after he’s gone.</p><p>Seokmin leans against a stool so he doesn’t have to stand. Typically, Minghao has always preferred to work in silence, or with one of his curated playlists. But Seokmin rests on the stool and talks about everything and nothing, pausing only to catch his breath or allow Minghao the space to laugh. He tells stories about his friends and the past and the places he’s seen. </p><p>Minghao tucks Seokmin’s stories beneath the paint, too.</p><p>“Jeonghan convinced a man once that he would turn him for, like, one hundred million yuan back in the 1950’s,” Seokmin laughs to himself. “And then we had to go into hiding because he found out that was a lie.”</p><p>Minghao gapes. “How did he not know? Everyone knows you can’t turn somebody into a vampire.”</p><p>“Ah, people knew less about us then. And Jeonghan can be very convincing.”</p><p>Minghao moves across the canvas in swift motions, depositing the toasted ochre tones where the light is hitting Seokmin’s neck. “I suppose people jump at the opportunity to never have to die.”</p><p>Seokmin is quiet until Minghao looks at him again. He finds him smiling softly, staring at the back of the canvas where the thick pieces of wood cross in the middle. He circles his thumbs in his lap. “It can be exhausting. Living for a long time. It’s not as fun as some people think.”</p><p>A silence stretches between them and Minghao weighs his words carefully before trying to break it. </p><p>“I’m sure it’s been hard.”</p><p>Seokmin gives him a wry smile. “People don’t like us very much.”</p><p>Minghao knows. Every few years there’s some politician or some religious zealot who gains traction with the same sort of rhetoric. <em> People are not prey. Vampires should be eradicated. </em> Sometimes they succeed in building a following until laws are put in place that limit the rights of vampires. </p><p>In the United States, twenty-two people died from a series of vampire attacks and now vampires living in the country have to register with the government. In Brazil, vampires are imprisoned just for existing. Here, Seokmin can’t move between the provinces without permission from the government. He can’t vote, he can’t get married, he can’t work.</p><p>“I think they just don’t trust what they don’t understand,” Minghao says. “People do terrible things because they’re afraid.”</p><p>“I think they have a good reason,” Seokmin frowns. “To be afraid of me.”</p><p>“But you didn’t ask for this.” Minghao attempts diplomacy, understanding. </p><p>“You’re right,” Seokmin says softly, looking far away. “I didn’t ask.”</p><p>“I don’t think of you that way,” Minghao says. He doesn’t believe in hating anyone for any reason beyond their control. He needs Seokmin to know this. It makes anxiety spike in him until he’s sure that Seokmin knows this. “You’ve never given me a reason to be afraid of you. So I’m not.”</p><p>Seokmin stares at him, wordlessly. For the first time, Minghao can’t figure out how Seokmin is feeling. There’s surprise on his face, but very little else.</p><p>Minghao gathers his courage. He swirls light into Seokmin’s skin on the canvas.. “Seokmin-ah, how did it happen for you? The turning, I mean.”</p><p>The corner of Seokmin’s mouth ticks up. “Murdered. It’s the case for most of us. That or war.”</p><p>“I’m sorry to hear that, Seokmin-ah,” he says sadly. “That’s especially not your fault.”</p><p>For a millisecond he thinks about it and it makes him ill. Seokmin being afraid, betrayed by another human being as his life is stolen from him. The very last moments of his life and what he must have filled them with. Minghao moves away from the thought quickly, before he considers it too much.</p><p>“It’s okay,” Seokmin lifts a conscious shoulder and drops it back into place. He’s been getting better about staying still. “I don’t remember much of what happened. Only waking up, what came after.”</p><p>“And what did come after?” Minghao asks. He pauses, glancing up at Seokmin again. “We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.”</p><p>Seokmin shakes his head. “No it’s okay. I trust you.” </p><p>He pauses for a few seconds. The words hang on the air.</p><p>“I was just confused, <em> unbelievably </em>hungry,” Seokmin says. “I knew something was all wrong. So I didn’t go home until I figured out what it was. Then, I had blood for the first time.”</p><p>“It’s always been so confusing to me, how <em> it </em> chooses who to affect.”</p><p>“It seems random. But every vampire I’ve ever met had something keeping them around after they died. Like ghosts who can’t cross over. Only we don’t get an eternity of being invisible. We’re pretty visible, that’s the problem.” Seokmin laughs under his breath, looking up through his bangs. </p><p>So many people Minghao has known throughout his life have spouted the same rhetoric he sees on tv, on the internet. The fear that some day some monster will get them and drain them of their blood. A monster with long fangs and a loss of morality as well as mortality. </p><p>But he wonders if people saw Seokmin, they’d see anything but a man who’s been cursed. A man who likes to cook deonjang jjigae he can’t taste and laughs at every little joke like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. A man who is lonely, despite being so friendly. A man who hides his fangs, because he knows they frighten people. </p><p>Minghao sees a kind man who lives forever, because he’s being forced to.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>The sun takes its time falling into the Yellow Sea.</p><p>Minghao has an easel set up in the front path to the house and he paints in the world in oranges. Orange like the citrus from Mrs. Kim’s trees, orange like the undertones of Seokmin’s skin. </p><p>He’s spent days waiting for paint on the portrait to dry where he comes here to paint the sunset. Over and over on the same canvas with new layers of pinks because the colors change each day. New tones of yellow because the sky catches fire in different ways before it’s extinguished into night.</p><p>And each day he waits for the sun to fall, fingers twitching around different paint brushes, anticipation settling in.</p><p>The sunset doesn’t feel like the day ending anymore. </p><p> </p><p>…</p><p>
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</p><p>Minghao sits on the drop cloth, trying to readjust his spine. He watches Seokmin pad out of the temporary studio and lies back, stretching out his fingers and toes. Seokmin needs breaks, but so does Minghao now that he’s working on the bottom of the canvas and having to crouch down. He has to fold himself into a knot just to get the right perspective.</p><p>“That looks comfortable,” Seokmin says amusedly. He stands over Minghao and studies him from his bare feet to his palms - which are covered in the sable colored paint Minghao is using for his shoes in the portrait.</p><p>“It is,” Minghao laughs. </p><p>Seokmin bends to drop the snacks and bottles he’s brought for Minghao. As always, it’s too much for Minghao to eat in one sitting. Seokmin gets to his knees first and then joins Minghao on the dropcloth floor, laying beside him, and stretching out the same way Minghao is.</p><p>“You’re right,” he hums. “It is comfortable.”</p><p>They share companionable silence while Minghao drinks from a water bottle and Seokmin scrolls through his cell phone. Seokmin isn’t always at ease in the quiet, usually he has to be distracted, but even when he puts his phone away and turns his head to the side, looking at Minghao, he doesn’t say anything.</p><p>It’s strange. Minghao studies Seokmin for hours. He stares at him and never feels any level of apprehension when he does. But when the roles are reversed, and Seokmin is looking at him, as intently as he is now, it makes Minghao’s chest feel heavy and light all at once.</p><p>He glances at Seokmin, wondering if Seokmin is staring at him for any particular reason. What he finds is Seokmin smiling - one of the many different smiles he has, this one milder than most, and where the dimple by his chin is the most pronounced. They make only a few seconds of eye contact before Seokmin is looking anywhere but Minghao’s face.</p><p>“Orange?” he says, hurriedly picking up one of Mrs. Kim’s and settling it in his palm before offering it to Minghao.</p><p>Minghao sets down the water bottle he’s holding. There are black fingerprints all over the plastic. Seokmin seems to read his mind.</p><p>“Let me,” he says.</p><p>Seokmin’s long fingernail beds dip into the rind, pulling at the top until the flesh gives. Their shape is graceful even as he tears away the thin peel - too thin for it to come away from the meat in anything but sections. The juice bubbles up even with Seokmin’s delicate palms.</p><p>“I wonder if she knows how good these are,” Minghao ponders.</p><p>“I’m sure she does,” Seokmin snorts. “They smell very sweet.”</p><p>“They are.”</p><p>Seokmin drops the last of the rind in a little pile between them. “I wish I could eat one.”</p><p>He breaks the orange into halves, but pauses when he looks at Minghao’s hands, still stained, despite how Minghao rubs them against his coveralls. Minghao can see Seokmin thinking about how to proceed, sees the thoughts flash across his face as he glances from the halves, to Minghao’s hands, and then to his mouth.</p><p>Minghao’s heart slams up against his chest when Seokmin breaks off a quarter and holds it out in front of Minghao’s mouth. “Here,” he says, almost a whisper.</p><p>This crosses a line. A line Minghao has been looking at from a distance for weeks. He’s been looking at Seokmin for too long, watching his back flex as he stirs a pot at the stove, eyeing his tongue peeking out between his lips when he strums guitar strings. Those little moments were all perfectly human, innocuous and to be expected when such an attractive person is living with you.</p><p>But circling his fingers around Seokmin’s wrist, holding it steady so he can avoid covering Seokmin’s fingertips with his lips as he takes the slice of an orange from his hand - it’s a line firmly crossed. </p><p>He glances up from under his eyelashes and Seokmin’s mouth is parted. Minghao drops his hand away from Seokmin’s wrist as he chews, watching Seokmin look affected and finding that he’s affected, too. Not as flustered as Seokmin clearly is, but incredibly warm under the studio light, hot and intense like a sunburn.</p><p>It occurs to him how much he wants to close his mouth around Seokmin’s fingers on the next pass. How he wants to kiss Seokmin’s mouth so he can taste the sweetness that Seokmin can’t enjoy for himself. </p><p>Seokmin appears as if he’s considering something, too.</p><p>“In a few days,” Seokmin starts quietly. “I need to eat.”</p><p>It’s not what Minghao is expecting him to say.</p><p>In his head, Minghao counts the days since he arrived. Seokmin hasn’t had any blood that Minghao has seen. There’s none in the house, no other people have been by, and Seokmin hasn’t left. At the beginning, Seokmin had referenced eating, but never the method.</p><p>Seokmin sets the orange down on the piece of the peel between their bodies. He rubs his hand palms together, skin sticky with the juice, and does not make eye contact.</p><p>“On Wednesday,” Seokmin continues. “Somebody will be coming by the house. It’s…”</p><p>“You don’t want me to see?” Minghao guesses.</p><p>“No,” Seokmin says sternly. It’s the most serious Minghao has seen him. “I don’t want you to see.”</p><p> </p><p>...</p><p>
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</p><p>Curiosity can be dangerous. </p><p>Minghao has never considered himself to be a person who disregards rules for the sake of it. Simple explanations from his mother why he couldn’t play outside of the garden, or friends telling him not to pry. They had always been sufficient, satisfactory. Don’t stray to where you are not wanted.</p><p>The woman is short, but sturdy. Her long inky black hair is tucked up into a knot at the top of her head, glasses perched on the edge of her nose, dressed so plainly that Minghao can’t decide if she’s a student or a mother or a single woman. He can see that she’s in her twenties or thirties and that she has a soft, placating voice when she settles into the couch.</p><p>But curiosity can be dangerous. Curiosity can put Minghao’s face halfway behind the edge of the staircase, peering out into the living room where Seokmin is sitting on the floor by the couch, knees tucked up to his chest. Curiosity can mean Minghao’s fingernails denting  into the textured drywall as Seokmin makes casual conversation with his meal.</p><p>She shrugs off her jacket and lets it fall from her shoulders. In front of her there is a glass of water, a few snacks she’s gathered from her own bag, some of the leftover dinner that Seokmin had made for Minghao scooped unceremoniously into a single bowl. There’s first aid items too - gauze, bandages, antiseptic. </p><p>Minghao can see Seokmin’s profile from where he’s standing, he can see the whole of the woman’s face as she turns on the couch and speaks so quietly that Minghao can’t make out what she says. Seokmin nods in response to it before he gathers her forearm into his hands, curling it with his lovely fingers. The woman lies back.</p><p>Even from here, Minghao can see the shine of healed skin and the puckers of scabs dotting along her wrist. Seokmin appears to inspect the skin, thumb grazing over the softer, unblemished parts. He closes his eyes, eyelashes on his cheeks, and sighs, staccato and heavy. </p><p>When he opens his eyes again, Minghao’s breath catches. </p><p>Seokmin’s eyes are as dark as pitch, the entire surface gone black, shiny and inky like obsidian. He blinks around the blackness of them and then he digs his nails into the woman’s wrist to hold her steady while his jaw comes loose on the hinge to join his fingers there.</p><p>The woman makes a clipped sound of shock, or pain, or discomfort, but it’s drowned out entirely by Seokmin groaning once his fangs pierce her skin. He shudders, shoulders hunching until he’s contracted in on himself and pulling her arm closer to his mouth. Seokmin sucks, hard, loud, a gurgling sound deep in his throat. No doubt made from the blood filling his mouth, pooling around the corner of his lips. </p><p>He sucks again, this time dragging his mouth upwards to catch what spills. It stains his lips red and smears along his cheek and the woman’s skin. Seokmin chases that too with his tongue, with his lips, with the open gape of his mouth. </p><p>He makes a harsh noise against her wrist before he leans backwards with her skin still attached to his mouth. His back hits the couch and he opens his eyes to the ceiling, suckling still while he lets gravity do most of the work. Only now the blood seeps out even more and spills down his chin, over the tendon of his neck to stain the collar of his shirt.</p><p>Minghao knows he should be frightened. He can hear his own consciousness screaming in the back of his mind. Somehow separated from his feet that refuse to move, his hand that refuses to unlatch from the edge of the wall, his eyes that refuse to look away. </p><p>He knows it should be horrifying. The woman’s legs twitch, body spasming where she’s laying down. Seokmin doesn’t seem to take notice as he takes and takes, licking around her skin with the length of his tongue flat up the side of her arm, red trails in the wake of the path he takes. He uses his fingers to gather up the blood that spills over his chin to push the excess between his lips, pleased sounds escaping from deep in his belly.</p><p>He finishes with a heaving chest and pink stained skin. His chin is still tilted upwards, head resting against the woman’s thigh. His eyes haven’t returned to normal and the blackness makes Minghao’s body tilt uncomfortably. He feels almost as dizzy as the woman looks when she starts to sit up on her elbows.</p><p>She reaches out with a shaking hand to stop the blood flow and then uses that same bleeding hand to reach out for the water. Seokmin breathes out an apology. His fingers are stained with blood when he reaches for the glass before she can.</p><p>“You don’t have to apologize, Seokmin-ah,” she says. Her voice is shaky. Seokmin twists and lifts the glass to her lips. </p><p>Seokmin blinks and the darkness in his eyes is gone. Minghao turns away.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a href="https://twitter.com/lithomancy">my twitter</a> / <a href="https://curiouscat.qa/lithomancy">my curiouscat</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Part Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Minghao was thirteen, his family took a trip to Beijing. </p><p>He recalls the trip clearly for how obsessed he’d become with art the year prior, and how he’d insisted on carrying a sketchbook around with him around the city, drawing what he could.</p><p>It was January. The Beijing Zoo was packed with tourists and Minghao watched the lions basking in the sun in their enclosure, sketching away while his father snapped pictures over his shoulder.</p><p><em> They’re like house cats </em> , his father had said. <em> Lazy. Look at that one licking its paws. </em></p><p>Great, hefty paws with claws coming unsheathed by the motion, flexing in the dappled sunlight. Fur stained red, maw stained red. Its large, pink tongue wrapped around its appendages and lapped at the excess blood.</p><p>Minghao paid attention to the eyes. Trying to capture the pretty wheat gold tone and the striking black delimitation of their shape. His mother petted his head. <em> Very pretty, </em> she said. <em> So pretty. </em></p><p>His father laughed and laughed. <em> Imagine taking one home. It curling at your feet. Not like a house cat then, I think. </em></p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>Night falls and pulls Minghao down with it. He watches the last of the sun’s rays glitter across the tall grass around Seokmin’s house, rosy gold into pallid pink. </p><p>It was only a few days ago that Minghao found himself considering Seokmin as someone who was more than just a commission. Now he’s not sure that he knows Seokmin at all.</p><p>A part of him - the logical part of him - tells him that seeing what he did only solidifies their differences. </p><p>He knows that Seokmin is a monster. Seokmin’s entire biology relies on the sacrifice of another person giving away their body to him. The blood - it isn’t <em> just </em>blood to him. Seokmin is dead and the only way he can maintain the facade of his humanity is to hunt people, take their blood and the life associated with it. That Seokmin is as animalistic as all the stories say. That when given blood, he becomes something sinister and frightening and loses all semblance of the person he supposedly is.</p><p>But the other part - the part of him that still flutters when the sun descends behind the edge of the ocean - thinks that it changes nothing about who Seokmin is at heart. Seokmin cooks him meals and likes romance movies. Seokmin is bright and intriguing and kind. Seokmin looks at Minghao and smiles like he can’t help it. </p><p>And <em> that </em> part of him makes him foolish. It makes him see Seokmin losing himself in the taste of blood and sets him on fire. Where the fear should be, this part of him replaces it with curiosity. What would Seokmin’s mouth look like around his wrist, it wonders. What would Seokmin think of the taste of him, it asks. </p><p> </p><p>...</p><p> </p><p>Sitting behind the canvas is like sitting behind a fortified wall. </p><p>It’s quiet. Percussive bass of the waves hitting the shore outside, the <em> shick shick </em> of the brush moving across the canvas. Minghao paints a deeper tone to Seokmin’s skin, not satisfied with how the previous layer had dried. The color isn’t rich enough, not earthen in the way Seokmin’s cheeks really are.</p><p>Seokmin watches him silently. </p><p>It’s perceptively different now, the way Seokmin looks at him. Seokmin’s spearing gaze carries the weight of something predatory. The whites of his eyes are startling to see. The blackness Minghao saw the night before casts a shadow over them, making it seem as if Seokmin now isn’t the true version of Seokmin. The real version of Seokmin is just below the surface.</p><p>Minghao’s bare feet jostle on the floorboards of the studio. Seokmin seems to notice that, too. His eyes are sharp as they track the movement. It’s only when Minghao puts his heels flat on the ground that Seokmin looks back up. </p><p>“Minghao,” Seokmin sighs. “I think I need a break.”</p><p>Worry lances through Minghao like a knife. “Alright,” he says. He sets his brush aside and wipes his hands on the cloth he keeps beside him. </p><p>Seokmin shoves his palms against his face and sits back onto the stool. When he exhales, it comes out muffled by his wrists, extended and uneven.</p><p>“Seokmin-ah?” Minghao questions. “Are you alright?”</p><p>When Minghao watched him the other night, he was sure that Seokmin hadn’t noticed him there. He was certain of it. But, when Seokmin looks up at him and Minghao sees the hurt in his eyes, a torrent of shame hits him all at once. </p><p>“I asked…” Seokmin starts with a small voice, pauses, and then breathes to recollect himself. “It was important to me that you didn’t see me feeding.” </p><p>The memory of it blinks into the back of Minghao’s mind; Seokmin’s black eyes, trained on the ceiling. Minghao walked away so quietly. The dread makes him feel like he’s being smothered. </p><p>Seokmin drops his hands away from his eyes and his face is contorted with confusion, distress. Minghao fumbles for the right words to say. He doesn’t want to lie and deny it, but every explanation he considers seems weak.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he whispers. </p><p>“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” Seokmin says. He crosses his arms over himself. “Looking like I did. It’s disgusting.”</p><p>“I shouldn’t have watched,” Minghao tries. “But...Seokmin-ah...it’s not disgusting.”</p><p>Seokmin tosses him an incredulous look. </p><p>The reason Seokmin had told him not to watch, Minghao decides, isn’t just because of the gore involved, or the fear that Minghao would be afraid of him. The reason is more complex than that, and the way Seokmin recedes, the way he uses a word like <em> disgusting </em> to describe himself, suggests that Seokmin is completely ashamed of himself. </p><p>“I’m not disgusted by you,” Minghao promises. Seokmin doesn’t look convinced. “I’m not,” Minghao repeats, for good measure.</p><p>For once, Seokmin doesn’t have anything to say, so Minghao continues.</p><p>“Seokmin-ah, you have to eat, I know that.” Minghao solidifies his gaze, makes sure that Seokmin is looking him in the eye. “I don’t know a lot and I’m sure there is a lot more for me to learn, but I know that you have to eat. That’s not disgusting and neither are you.”</p><p>The first night Minghao was here, Seokmin had mentioned side effects, but Minghao had already learned some things about vampires and the necessity for them to feed. Primarily, that when a vampire <em> doesn’t </em> eat, the hunger grows exponentially. It makes them feral and monstrous. It doesn’t just go away. </p><p>Seokmin contemplates Minghao’s answer, eyebrows still drawn together and arms still crossed. “I’ve hurt people. I could hurt you, too.”</p><p>“You won’t,” Minghao says with finality. Seokmin’s expression fractures. Frustration giving way to shock. He studies Minghao’s face and then looks at the floor a few inches from the tips of his own toes. </p><p>“You don’t know that.”</p><p>“I do.”</p><p>“How?” Seokmin says, his voice is vice tight and choked. </p><p>“Because I trust you not to,” Minghao assures. </p><p>He was given Seokmin’s trust without question and there is evidence that he has forfeited it. </p><p>On the canvas, the wet layers of paint shimmer on Seokmin’s hands. They look identical in shape to the ones clutching Seokmin’s biceps across the room. The detail isn’t finished - no lines in the knuckles or gleam of the nail beds - but they are Seokmin’s hands, undoubtedly.</p><p>Seokmin’s eyes flick upwards, shining in the lighting. </p><p>“I’ll understand,” Minghao says cautiously. “If you don’t want me to do this portrait anymore. I can go tonight even.”</p><p>Seokmin’s eyes widen. “No,” he rushes to say. He sits forward and shakes his head, dropping his arms to his sides. “Why would I - of course I don’t want you to go.”</p><p>The relief that strikes Minghao is like a tidal wave, far more powerful than he expected it to be. He offers Seokmin a limp smile and Seokmin offers one in return. A pair of wounded things. </p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>“Finally” is how Seungkwan answers Minghao’s call on the third ring. “It’s been almost a week.”</p><p>“I told you there’s nothing to worry about,” Minghao lies. </p><p>“I could get you on a flight. Just say the word.”</p><p>Minghao stands at the edge of Seokmin’s property, where the piled volcanic rock separates the yard from the road. “Seungkwan, I’m not in any danger. I told you.”</p><p>“I’m just afraid, hyung. You hear all the stories.”</p><p>Minghao looks back at the house over his shoulder. The sea is churning out a tantrum across the highway. There isn’t any rhythm to the way the waves beat against the rocky shore. “I know. But he’s not like the stories. He’s not what you’d expect.”</p><p> </p><p>...</p><p> </p><p>You can’t unring a bell, but eventually the clapper will stop hitting the sides. </p><p>They pick up the missteps of their routine through the strain. Seokmin makes him dinner and Minghao washes the dishes. Seokmin complains that Minghao shouldn’t have to wash the dishes because he’s a guest. Minghao tells him that it’s the least he could do. Seokmin turns on the kettle for Minghao to have tea. Seokmin talks too much. </p><p>Only now Seokmin keeps this unreadable fixed expression on his face when he thinks Minghao isn’t looking. He stands a little closer when he serves Minghao dinner, he breathes a little deeper when Minghao is referencing him behind the canvas.</p><p>Minghao takes notice. Minghao has built a career on noticing the nuance in a person’s face. He’s mastered the curve of a cheek or the crease of an eyelid, what a far away gaze means, what a twinkle in the eye promises. </p><p>They sit on the couch during a night when Minghao can’t paint until another layer of pigment dries. It’s near midnight and the crickets are chirping a chorus over the American drama Seokmin is watching. He’s not using the subtitles. </p><p>“I didn’t know you could speak English,” Minghao says with surprise. He balances his sketchbook on his knees, tucked up close to his chest. There’s a dozen scribbles of Seokmin’s profile on one of the pages already. </p><p>Seokmin runs his fingers through the short hairs on the back of his head. He’s curled up on the other side of the couch and he shoots Minghao a quick grin before turning back to the television. “I actually speak four languages.”</p><p>“That’s impressive.”</p><p>“It’s really not,” he says modestly. “I’ve been around for awhile. It’s more impressive that you know two.”</p><p>This is easy conversation. This is how it used to be. Minghao blushes at the compliment and sucks his lips between his teeth to hide his smile. He turns the page in the sketchbook to find one with nothing on it. “Do you mind turning towards me?” he asks.</p><p>Seokmin turns off the television set and turns his body so the lower part of his back is on the armrest, legs folded over themselves. He tucks his hands into his lap. “Have you been drawing me this whole time?” he says. He doesn’t look over the edge of the sketchbook, but Minghao can see that he wants to.</p><p>“Not all of you. I’m going to be starting on the details of your face soon. I want to practice so I get it right.”</p><p>Seokmin makes an affirmative noise. “So you haven’t started on my face? Am I just a faceless blob on the canvas?” he chuckles.</p><p>Minghao looks between Seokmin’s nose and the paper, tracing out the soft indentation of Seokmin’s cupid's bow in graphite. He smiles as he works - distracted, but genuine. “Mm. You’ve got a nose, sort of. But no mouth just yet.” He laughs at the description and Seokmin grins wide.</p><p>“Are you drawing my mouth now?”</p><p>“Mhm,” Minghao hums. “So stop moving it,” he jokes.</p><p>Seokmin tampers down his smile anyway, but there’s still the ghost of it at the edges of his cheeks where the skin divots in slightly. Minghao gets them onto paper before they disappear. The curve of them, the way they frame the corners of Seokmin’s mouth.</p><p>Minghao analyzes him, directing all focus to the plush stamp of Seokmin’s mouth. He notes every wrinkle on the skin of his lips and the petal color. They’re full and pretty, even and dotted with the slightest freckle or two. Minghao draws them over and over again.</p><p>He’s studied mouths hundreds of times. He’s painted pieces where he’s looked at a person’s mouth for hours, hung the evidence of it on the wall of a gallery and sold that mouth to a stranger to hang in their home. Never once has he been filled with warmth drawing a mouth like this. Like he’s swallowed hot coal, like it’s radiating in his belly and heating him from the inside out.</p><p>Seokmin shifts slightly and Minghao looks up at his eyes. </p><p>“Fidgety,” Minghao comments, giving Seokmin a half smile. Seokmin huffs out a laugh.</p><p>He doesn’t close his mouth again and Minghao sets back on the paper, ready to capture the minute differences between Seokmin’s lips parted and Seokmin’s lips closed. The curve of his top lip is different, the bottom lip is thicker.</p><p>There’s also his fangs. Brilliant white and sheened with saliva, peeking out in the shapes of little letter v’s. Minghao swallows, throat sticking, and readjusts the grip of his pencil. </p><p>He hasn’t <em> really </em>drawn them before now. </p><p>It’s under the guise of artistic study that he gives himself a <em> real </em> chance to look at them now. To examine them without feeling embarrassed - or worse, embarrassing Seokmin. No half glances out of the corner of his eye. Really look at them. Draw them. Keep the shape of them forever.</p><p>They look duller than they need to be. If their purpose is to cut, they don’t seem sharp enough to do the job. Or long enough for that matter. And the thought sends a shiver down Minghao’s spine, makes him shade Seokmin’s mouth darker than he means to.</p><p>It must hurt tremendously. If Seokmin were to push his fangs through skin, they’re too blunt to break the surface without some force. Maybe that’s why Seokmin had to hold that woman’s arm so still. Maybe that’s why he kept digging in his fingers as he drank. It must hurt. The skin breaking, the blood being pulled up to the surface. It must also be why she had so many scars. </p><p>If Seokmin were to bite him, would it take long to heal? Would Seokmin bite him in a place that everyone would be able to see it? Would he fuss about the way it’s healing like he fusses about everything else? </p><p>“Are you drawing…” Seokmin starts. He runs his fingers over his bottom lip and then drops them absently. “Are you drawing my teeth?”</p><p>Minghao looks back down at his sketchpad. “I am.”</p><p>“Oh,” Seokmin sighs. It’s open-ended. An incomplete sentence that Minghao isn’t sure what’s meant to finish it. </p><p>When he looks up at Seokmin again, he feels pinned under him. His eyes are heavy, looking at Minghao the same way he did the night after Minghao had seen what he wasn’t supposed to. Minghao glances back down at his teeth, where his fangs are still <em> just </em> visible.</p><p>Seokmin licks both of his lips. A nervous habit. Minghao has seen him do it dozens of times in the weeks they’ve spent together. </p><p>But then Seokmin presses the tip of his tongue under his top lip, follows the edge of his right cuspid down to its pointed end and pushes into the sharpness. His tongue depresses under it.</p><p>Minghao speaks softly. “Doesn’t that hurt?”</p><p>Seokmin shakes his head slowly, but his eyes don’t leave Minghao’s face. Still pinning him there. </p><p>“Are they…” Minghao falters.</p><p>“Sharp?” Seokmin offers. Minghao looks down at his sketchbook and nods silently. Not risking his unfiltered reactions if he keeps looking at Seokmin while discussing the sharpness of his fangs. He’s gripping his pencil hard enough to snap it in two.</p><p>“A little,” Seokmin says. His voice sounds strange and affected. Minghao isn’t sure if it’s discomfort or something else. “I bite my lips all the time. On accident. I heal fast though.” He pauses. A beat. Silent all but for the sound of Minghao’s pencil moving over paper. “We don’t have to talk about this.”</p><p>Minghao cautions a glance up. Just over the top of his sketchbook to meet Seokmin’s eyes and then back down again. “Your fangs don’t make me uncomfortable, you know.”</p><p>“They don’t?” Seokmin asks.</p><p>“I told you,” Minghao says simply. “I’m not afraid of you.”</p><p> </p><p>...</p><p> </p><p>He dreams about Seokmin’s mouth around his throat. </p><p>In the dream, Seokmin pins his wrists against the wall so he can’t run away. He says <em> Hao please </em> and Minghao lifts his chin, baring his throat, and Seokmin breathes him in. The phantom pain of Seokmin’s teeth sinking into his jugular startles him awake.</p><p>The rain outside is frigid, hitting his face like darts, as he walks beside the wind turbines. Each time a drop hits his cheek, it stings. The feeling is grounding, almost as burning as how he imagined Seokmin’s fangs cutting through his skin.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>Seokmin forgives him too quickly, Minghao thinks. </p><p>He stands on the ladder, coloring intricacies into Seokmin’s hair. Seokmin keeps looking up to talk to him, changing the planes of light on his hair every time he moves. </p><p>Today it’s about the sixteen years Seokmin spent in Busan with Mingyu. The small stories are punctuated by Seokmin glancing upwards to see Minghao’s reaction, waiting for Minghao to laugh or frown, before trying - and failing - to return to the original pose.</p><p>“You used to be better at sitting still, you know,” Minghao giggles. </p><p>“Am I moving too much?” Seokmin asks innocently. His eyes are wide, but the smile on his face is playful.</p><p>“Yes,” Minghao says emphatically, waving the paintbrush in Seokmin’s direction. “Chin down and you need to turn your head just a little to the left.”</p><p>Seokmin does. Too far to the left. Minghao motions for him to turn it slightly back to the right, and Seokmin turns too far to the right. </p><p>Minghao sighs exasperatedly, making a show of it as he stands to his full height and pushes up the sleeves of his coveralls to put Seokmin where he wants him.</p><p>His smile fades as he comes closer. He hasn’t touched Seokmin since he’d seen him with the woman on the couch. </p><p>He takes a sobering breath before he places his palms on Seokmin’s cheeks - still startled as ever that Seokmin is warm. The heat of him radiates all the way up to his elbows, fingers splaying over the skin as he tucks his fingertips into Seokmin’s hair, behind Seokmin’s ear.</p><p>Seokmin lets himself be moved and Minghao focuses on the lights above them, checking the angles to make sure it’s cascading just right across Seokmin’s face. He uses his thumbs under Seokmin’s chin, his index fingers across Seokmin’s temples. </p><p>And Seokmin is looking up at him. </p><p>Minghao tries to ignore it. It’s not the first time they’ve touched. It’s not the first time they’ve looked at one another this close. Minghao has adjusted him like this before and Seokmin has always watched.</p><p>But when he looks down, Seokmin is wearing that same expression he’s had intermittently for days. Unreadable. Unrelenting. </p><p>Minghao pulls back, but this time Seokmin grabs hold of Minghao’s wrists before Minghao’s fingertips fall away from his cheeks. Something twists in Minghao’s belly in anticipation.</p><p>He feels like he’s standing outside himself when he sees Seokmin raise his chin, when Seokmin gently tugs Minghao forward like a question and a command all at once. Minghao lets himself be pulled, willing his eyes to stay open because Seokmin’s are, too. </p><p>From this close he can see the nearly black ring of Seokmin’s irises, each individual eyelash. The details are stunning - both the ones he could replicate in the painting, and the ones he can’t. Seokmin’s eyes flicker between Minghao’s mouth and Minghao’s eyes, his breath tickles against Minghao’s bottom lip.</p><p>Minghao closes his eyes at the last possible second. Just before Seokmin plants his mouth solidly on Minghao’s, warm like the rest of him, careful like he thinks he might scare Minghao away. </p><p>And Minghao holds his face in cupped hands as he responds. Kissing like a question of his own until Seokmin makes a soft sound in the back of his throat - a little like an answer.</p><p>It slams into him how much he’s wanted to do this. So much so that he has to pull away from the seal of Seokmin’s mouth.</p><p>Seokmin lets him go, hands dropping to his sides where he’s perched on the stool. “Was that - ? Did I - ?”</p><p>Minghao doesn’t move his hands away from Seokmin’s jaw. “Did you keep moving around just for an excuse to do this?” he laughs gently, watching Seokmin’s lips part in the shape of an O.</p><p>“Oh,” Seokmin says bashfully. “God, was it that obvious?”</p><p>His cheeks go pink like the sunset Minghao is still trying to get right. </p><p> </p><p>...</p><p> </p><p>They mean to just take a break. Minghao gives up getting anymore painting done for the night. Instead, he paints Seokmin’s mouth with his own.</p><p>Without the coveralls coated with paint, Seokmin can finally get closer. He holds Minghao to his chest, arms wrapped around his waist to keep him still as he kisses him in the doorway to the temporary studio. Minghao had tried to sneak by to clean off his brushes, but Seokmin catches him and kisses him before he can.</p><p>Minghao holds brushes in both hands with his arms behind Seokmin’s neck, careful not to get any paint in Seokmin’s hair. He lets himself be kissed only long enough to savor before he kisses Seokmin back. Minghao gets bold enough to lick over Seokmin’s lips, but instead of parting them, Seokmin leans away.</p><p>He tucks Minghao’s hair behind his ears, looks between his eyes like he’s not sure if Minghao is really there at all. “I was afraid you were going to leave.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” Minghao asks.</p><p>“After you saw what I did to her,” Seokmin says. “I thought you were going to be gone when I woke up.”</p><p>He gathers all his paintbrushes precariously in one of his fists, using his free hand to push Seokmin’s hair off of his forehead. It’s gotten longer in the weeks he’s been here. It never occurred to him that Seokmin’s hair would grow. </p><p>“And leave <em> you </em>?” Minghao mocking disbelief. “Of course not.”</p><p> </p><p>...</p><p> </p><p>Mrs. Kim brings another round of groceries. She drops more oranges into the bowl on the counter, now flanked by three nice bottles of red wine she had to go all the way into Jeju-Do to buy. French reds, fancy labels. They must have cost a small fortune each. She tells him <em> he likes to spoil you </em>. </p><p>Seokmin still tries to not let Minghao help with the cooking and cleaning. Minghao argues that professionalism and politeness went out the window when Seokmin decided to kiss Minghao in the middle of a portrait sitting. </p><p>Seokmin still insists on controlling the direction of the meal because he’d spent weeks preparing a menu. He argues, adamantly, that his research counts extra because he had to re-learn everything about how food works. He does, however, let Minghao chop vegetables as a compromise.</p><p>They stand in the kitchen shoulder to shoulder, a comfortable energy between them. Seokmin plays a bunch of 1980’s classics because he likes the synthesizer. Minghao accepts the spoon lifted to his mouth whenever Seokmin wants him to have a taste.</p><p>“I can never tell what you’re thinking, you know,” Seokmin says with amusement, watching him test the broth.</p><p>Minghao smiles and kisses Seokmin on the cheek. “Isn’t it obvious?”</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>Every night the Seokmin on the canvas starts to resemble the Seokmin sitting on the other side of it with more and more accuracy. Minghao feels like a sculptor in that way. Like Seokmin has been trapped in the canvas all along, each brush stroke working to chip away until he can see his features with more and more clarity.</p><p>The Seokmin in the portrait has a nose and full lips. Minghao agonizes over the placement of his moles. They’re dotted all over his face in varying depths of color. The one on his cheek is easy to spot. The ones near his lips less so.</p><p>“I need to check something,” Minghao says as he stands. His hands are coated in greys and whites he’s been using to carve out the contour of light hitting Seokmin’s face. He wipes off his fingers on his coveralls, not nearly enough to get the amount of paint off, but enough to be sure he doesn’t start staining everything in the room.</p><p>Seokmin tries to tamper down a smile as Minghao crosses his arms and leans forward. He’s inches away from Seokmin’s face, studying the patterns across the right cheek down to the edges of his mouth. Seokmin’s smile picks up even more, tugging at his lips until Minghao is face to face with the edges of his teeth and the divot of his dimple. Minghao finds himself smiling, too.</p><p>He settles into Seokmin’s lap. Seokmin nearly topples off the back of the chair and Minghao’s laughing so hard that his sides hurt, but eventually Seokmin’s hands find his hips and they steady themselves on each other.</p><p>“You have such a nice laugh,” Seokmin says. He has to tilt his chin up to look at Minghao with the way they’re sitting and Minghao throws his arms around Seokmin’s neck, careful not to get the oil paints in his hair.</p><p>“It’s sweet,” Seokmin adds. He winces around a smile, seemingly embarrassed by his own comment, but it makes Minghao’s heart feel like it’s full of helium. </p><p>He kisses Seokmin slow because he can. Slow because for once he’s sitting in Seokmin’s lap and Minghao feels like he’s in control. Minghao lets his fingers drag along Seokmin’s jaw, around to the tip of his chin, guiding Seokmin’s lips to part with his own until he can feel Seokmin breathing against his tongue.</p><p>They haven’t kissed like this and Minghao knows why. </p><p>Seokmin tries to squirm away when Minghao licks over his top lip. Minghao holds him still, palms pressed up against his cheek to hold his mouth open. Seokmin scrambles his fingers across Minghao’s back in shock and Minghao takes the opportunity that presents itself while Seokmin still has his lips parted.</p><p>Minghao curls the tip of his tongue over the backs of Seokmin’s front teeth, not altogether careful of the protrusion of Seokmin’s fangs, and lets his tongue scrape across them, sending a chill down his spine once he feels that they’re sharper than he thought. He sighs, but the sound Seokmin makes feels like a frequency that could cause them both to shatter. A high keen as he fists his hands into Minghao’s coveralls, immediately reaching up to Minghao’s hair in a surprising fit of desperation to crash their mouths back together.</p><p>It’s like a dam breaking. The first cracks and the trickle of water giving way to the overwhelming rush. Seokmin acts like he can’t get close enough, touching Minghao like he’s trying to reach through him, licking into his mouth like he wants to taste the backs of his teeth. </p><p>It’s nothing like doing this with a normal person. Minghao can feel each prick of Seokmin’s fangs on his lips, the bite of them as they dig into his tongue when licking the roof of Seokmin’s mouth. It hurts in a way that Minghao is stunned to find he likes so much. And better, it seems to make Seokmin frantic, loud, quick to push Minghao down on the floor until he’s buried in a drop cloth with Seokmin hovering over him.</p><p>He spreads his legs with a breathless laugh. There are smears of light grey paint all over Seokmin’s cheeks. Tiny finger-tip sized stamps of pigments with little tails of color like comets. They’re everywhere on his face, down his neck, over the white shirt he’s wearing. Seokmin raises his eyebrows in confusion, eyes glassy and half-lidded.</p><p>“Paint all over you,” Minghao rasps. He shows Seokmin his hands where the color has transferred from.</p><p>Seokmin laughs, touching his forehead against Minghao’s chin. Minghao reaches between their bodies until he feels the waistband of the pants Seokmin is wearing and yanks at his shirt until it comes untucked. Seokmin’s breath stutters, and he sits up to let Minghao take care of pulling the buttons free.</p><p>Minghao hasn’t seen Seokmin’s bare chest yet, but the moment the fabric parts he’s unsurprised to find that Seokmin is beautiful everywhere. The same amber tone of skin, contoured in the studio light to reveal lean muscle and the edges of his ribs. He has freckles there, too, and Minghao’s eyes flitter back and forth trying to spot every one before touching them with his fingers.</p><p>“Handsome,” he hums. </p><p>“Hao.”</p><p>Seokmin is shaking above him, breath coming in and out in surges. He watches Minghao’s hands, the color that smears across his sternum, over his belly, in a semi-circle around his left nipple. Seokmin’s head drops, his hands hurried and tremoring until he finds the tab of the zipper to Minghao’s coveralls.</p><p>Minghao drops his hands above his head, letting Seokmin undress him, eyes on one another until Minghao is as bare from the waist up as Seokmin is. He can feel Seokmin’s own cock insistent against his thigh, the weight of Seokmin’s hand on his cheek when Seokmin leans down to lick back into his mouth. He’s not careful of his teeth now. He lets Minghao feel the shape of them, the sharpness of them, while he fits their hips together. </p><p>Minghao has never been so turned on. He’s always liked to kiss, to touch, almost more than sex. But this is something different. Each nip Seokmin presses against the fat of his bottom lip makes his hips twitch up, makes him whine in a way that doesn’t even sound like it’s coming from his own mouth. A distant and separate thing, making him feel like a stranger in his own body, operating on impulse.</p><p>He scrambles down to find the buttons of Seokmin’s pants, pushing insistently until they’re off Seokmin’s hips and Minghao can get his hand around his cock. Seokmin bucks into the ring of his fingers, unashamedly loud against Minghao’s mouth and unbelievably sensitive. </p><p>Minghao tries to get his own pants down with one hand, and lets Seokmin help him when he fails at the top button twice. He takes them both into his hand, and it’s dry and overwhelming. But Seokmin is fucking against Minghao’s cock, pulling back until the head catches on Minghao’s fingers and then pushing back in to the base. He’s leaned away again, lost in it, face twisted as if the feeling of it is so good that it’s painful.</p><p>Seokmin opens his eyes to search Minghao’s face. Until he gets timid, and tucks his mouth underneath Minghao’s ear. He conceals the sound there, louder now because of proximity, but suppressed by the open-mouthed kisses he pushes into the skin. Minghao turns his head to the side like an offering, hand coming to the back of Seokmin’s head, eyes losing focus as Seokmin gets sloppier, letting his fangs catch along the jut of Minghao’s jaw and over the stretch of tendons in his neck.</p><p>Seokmin’s teeth are against Minghao’s throat, mouth open, breath coming out in hot puffs that makes Minghao’s skin break out in goosebumps. He hovers there and Minghao holds his breath, pulse kicking under the skin of his throat. Seokmin must feel it. Does it make him want to sink his teeth down? Does it make Minghao feel like prey to him?</p><p>“Please,” Minghao grits out.</p><p>His toes curl up and catch on the drop cloth as he feels himself getting closer and closer. He can feel Seokmin taking a heaving breath, letting it all out through his nose pressed up against Minghao’s earlobe, his hips moving out of rhythm. </p><p>Seokmin slams his hand down above Minghao’s head, coming with a cut off shout as finishes into Minghao’s hand. His teeth drag across Minghao’s throat, breath hot and damp against his pulse. And that combined with the mess in his hand easing the slide makes him finish too. He yanks on Seokmin’s hair harder than he means until Seokmin grunts in protest, releasing it only when his body stops spasming and he can gain more control over it.</p><p>He only registers that Seokmin has moved his mouth from his throat when he feels him placing kisses on his slack lips. Minghao opens his eyes to see Seokmin has his tightly shut. Even when Minghao caresses his cheek, he won’t open them.</p><p>Minghao kisses him to quiet him. Kisses him again and again until Seokmin stops hesitating and kisses him back.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>Years from now Minghao will look back and say <em> ah, yes, here </em>. </p><p>He’ll think of Seokmin playing guitar and singing way too loudly in the other room while he cleans his palettes in the kitchen sink. He’ll remember that Seokmin comes into the kitchen and tries his best to hit the highest note in some American rock song and Minghao practically falls over laughing at how red his face went.</p><p>Minghao will look back and point at the two of them on the couch, watching a drama Seokmin has seen twice and Minghao hasn’t heard of. Seokmin over-explains every plot point and Minghao listens. He’ll say<em> here is the moment I loved him </em>.</p><p>Seokmin tries his best to hide that he’s crying in the last episode and he’ll whine about how he’s seen it before. He’ll say to Minghao, “He gave up everything to be with her and in the end they only had a day.” He’ll say to Minghao, “This is so embarrassing.”</p><p>Minghao will look at himself dabbing the tears off of Seokmin’s cheeks with a tissue and say <em> you loved him then, before you even realized it </em>.</p><p> </p><p>...</p><p> </p><p>Minghao hardly sleeps in the guest room anymore. He hardly sleeps when he’s supposed to at all. </p><p>It’s nearing sunrise when he collapses into Seokmin’s bed with him again. Another night spent, more color deposited on canvas, the mirror of Seokmin’s image almost clear on the portrait.</p><p>Here he learns things about Seokmin that can’t be spoken or replicated in art. Here he learns that Seokmin craves touch. That he needs to have as much contact with Minghao’s skin as possible and that he’s immeasurably quieted by it. Minghao has never seen Seokmin so silent as he is when Minghao is holding him against his chest before the sun rises.</p><p>“Are you going to paint by the water again today?” Seokmin asks absently. Minghao is running his fingers through Seokmin’s hair, pulling at the strands until they go taught and then dropping them. </p><p>“If it doesn’t rain,” Minghao sighs. Seokmin’s arm is splayed over his stomach, rising and falling when Minghao takes a breath.</p><p>“I wish I could go with you,” Seokmin murmurs. </p><p>Minghao’s heart sinks into the pit of his stomach. He draws a comforting pattern into the base of Seokmin’s skull, following the path down over the top of his spine where Seokmin likes to be touched. “I’ll paint it for you.”</p><p>“Really? Another painting for me?” Seokmin grins. “You’re not going to charge me for it, right?”</p><p>“No,” Minghao laughs. “No charge. I’ll paint exactly what the sky looks like tomorrow, and then you can see.”</p><p>Seokmin pulls him tighter - always unaware of his strength, practically crushing Minghao into his chest. “What’s it like?”</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>“The sun.”</p><p>Minghao’s throat aches dangerously. He swallows around the lump forming in the back and tries to steady his breath as he exhales. Seokmin is heavy on his chest, weighted in his arms. Minghao struggles to find the words. </p><p>“Warm. Hot, still, even though it’s winter. And very bright. If you stare too long at it you start to get dizzy.” Minghao kisses the top of Seokmin’s head. “Like you,” he adds.</p><p>Seokmin laughs sheepishly, against Minghao’s chest. “You get dizzy when you look at me?”</p><p>“Mm.”</p><p>“But you’re painting me, you look at me for hours.”</p><p>“Exactly,” Minghao says. He pokes his fingers into Seokmin’s side where he’s most ticklish. </p><p> Minghao holds the giggling sun in his arms while the one outside rises.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>“You hardly call,” Seungkwan says, not bothering to hide how disappointed he is. Minghao can practically hear his bottom lip jutting out on the other end of the line. “How is it going?”</p><p>“I’m getting close to being done,” Minghao says. He pushes the door open to the cafe he’s been visiting in Sincheng. The woman behind the counter puts a cartoon of a sun in sharpie on the side of his disposable cup. Today she has made his little smile bigger than usual, and his eyes are lopsided.</p><p>“Why do you sound so sad about it?”</p><p>Minghao stops in the gravel parking lot to take a sip. “I’m not - I’m not sad.”</p><p>“You sound sad,” Seungkwan presses. “Hyung, you know you can tell me anything.”</p><p>Minghao sighs. “I’ve lived with him for over a month. We get along well. I told you. He’s not what you’d expect.”</p><p>“So he’s not what <em> you </em> expected.”</p><p>The wind kicks up and sends Minghao’s bangs scattering across his forehead. The wind turbines are spinning faster than he’s seen them go in weeks. “I just don’t want to leave.”</p><p>The line is quiet. Minghao swallows and the spit gets trapped in the back of his throat. </p><p>“Did you - what happened?”</p><p>Minghao doesn’t answer. </p><p>“Hyung…” Seungkwan presses. He’s got that soft, concerned tone that he saves for the people he really cares about. And Seungkwan is smart. He’s probably already figured it out.</p><p>The wind turbines spin and spin and spin. </p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>Minghao stands barefooted on the dropcloth, spinning the paintbrush in one hand. </p><p>It’s nearly one in the afternoon. Mrs. Kim brought the last round of groceries, it’s warmer than any other day he’s been here, and Seokmin’s image is staring back at him on the canvas. </p><p>While the last layer dries, he works on the background. There’s this dramatic distinction of darkness giving way to the diagonal shoot of light coming in from the upper right hand corner. He has to sit on the top of the ladder to reach the parts he’s trying to make less bright, less stark.</p><p>When he looks down, the one dimensional version of Seokmin is looking out and away from him. Staring somewhere around the height of his shins, eyes sparkling and reflecting invisible light.</p><p>Minghao is proud of it. Normally he’d agonize over the finishing touches, find ways to self-criticize because strands of hair are muddled or he hadn't made the nostrils right. And he expected to agonize over this piece, too, if not <em> more </em> for how it means more to the subject.</p><p>But when he stands with his back against the wall, appreciating the canvas at his full height, he feels the same swell in his heart that he does looking at the real Seokmin. He gets caught up in the darkness of his eyes just the same, the protruding tip of his nose and the gracefulness of his fingers clasped over his belly. </p><p>It’s different to paint someone when you’re in love with them. Easier somehow. </p><p>He’d always thought of the idea of muses to be silly and romanticized. He paints people all the time. It’s his entire career. </p><p>But in a way he can feel this specter of Seokmin’s hand around his wrist as he finds the right shade of grey on his palette to catch the light the way it needs to be caught. It’s Seokmin who leads him to where attention needs to be given. </p><p>
  <em> Here Hao, my hair catches light this way. The corner of my mouth is sharper. The second knuckle on my left hand is bigger than the right. </em>
</p><p>Seokmin in his mind stands over his shoulder at three in the afternoon and says:</p><p>
  <em> Hao, I think it’s done, don’t you? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>Minghao puts his hands on Seokmin’s eyes and Seokmin trips three times between the door to the makeshift studio and the space behind the painting.</p><p>“Don’t you have enhanced senses?” Minghao giggles into his ear.</p><p>“That’s a myth and you know it,” Seokmin responds. The vice grip he has on Minghao’s arms betrays that statement. Minghao is half-convinced Seokmin could snap his forearms in half if he really put his mind to it.</p><p>He settles Seokmin behind the canvas, trying to get him to stand in just the right spot to get as much of the painting in view, the right angle, the right lighting. Without the dropcloths and the studio lights, the space appears marginally bigger, but he has to put Seokmin all the way up against the wall to be sure he can see the top of the portrait as well as the bottom.</p><p>Seokmin is practically vibrating in his hands, and with Seokmin’s back against his chest, he can feel the thudding of Seokmin’s heart - an erratic beat, quick as hummingbird wings. Seokmin has been anxious since he woke up, pinching at his lips until Minghao tries to pre-occupy his hands with his own, not talking much while he sits with Minghao at the table during dinner because he’s lost inside his own head.</p><p>“Are you ready?” Minghao says into his ear. </p><p>Seokmin nods his head unevenly. “Y-yes. Yes.”</p><p>Minghao drops his hands away from Seokmin’s eyes.</p><p>The Seokmin on the canvas is the same height as the Seokmin standing in the room, if not a few inches taller from the way he’s positioned in the portrait. Minghao was particularly careful about keeping the proportions as similar as possible. Where he’d normally try to depict his subjects in certain poses, or prefer to paint a bust rather than a full body, he’d tried to make Seokmin feel as if he’s looking in a mirror rather than looking at a painting.</p><p>It’s eerie how successful he was in that regard. Seokmin is resting his face naturally the same way he is in the portrait. His eyes and lips held the same way, shoulders the same breadth. If Seokmin were to be standing in a room with black walls and dramatic lighting, it might even be difficult to tell which was which.</p><p>Seokmin’s face stays unchanged before it slips into thoughtfulness. The tell-tale furrow of his brows signaling his curiosity, the work he puts into thinking plain on his face as he takes a step forward so the painting is at arm's length. </p><p>He reaches out, hesitating, and then places his finger over his own nose on the canvas, following the slope down to the tip. His other hand comes up to his own face, replicating where he’s touching the canvas, fingertip testing the give on the point of his nose.</p><p>He does the same for his mouth, tracing around the cupid’s bow and the curve of his bottom lip. Both his hands move in synchronization - right hand over his own face, left hand on his face replicated in oil paint - and he finds the fold of his eyelid, the lattice of his eyelashes. His finger stops over his cheek, where the most prominent beauty mark is at, pushing his finger into his own cheek and missing the spot entirely.</p><p>Minghao licks his lips and takes Seokmin’s right wrist. He readjusts where Seokmin’s finger is pointing, presses his index fingertip directly into the little mole on his cheek. “Here,” he says softly. “The mark is right here.”</p><p>Seokmin turns his face to him, breath crackling in chest. “Is this…?”</p><p>“You?”</p><p>Seokmin swallows thickly and looks back to the painting. The room isn’t as bright without the high wattage bulbs illuminating it, but the duller lamp light still catches the glistening in Seokmin’s eyes. Minghao takes Seokmin’s left hand, too, and he moves both of Seokmin’s hands in tandem. “Here,” he repeats, finding another mole to show him, this time the one near the corner of his mouth. “And here.” The mole near his ear. “And there’s a little scar here.” The dip of poorly healed skin on his cheek.</p><p>Seokmin opens his mouth to speak and then closes it again. Minghao releases his wrists. </p><p>Minghao isn’t sure if it’s empathy that makes the lump in his throat get too big to swallow down. Empathy, or love, or the fact that Seokmin’s openness makes him impossible not to sympathize with. Seokmin’s eyes are full with tears, Minghao can feel the tell-tale prickle in the corner of his own eyes.</p><p>“Do I really look like this?” Seokmin's voice trembles. He traces over his own neck in the painting, down to where his shirt is open and his collarbones are exposed.</p><p>
  <em> No. You’re prettier.  </em>
</p><p>“Yes,” Minghao says evenly. He places his palm onto the center of Seokmin’s back. “But you should see your smile.”</p><p>Seokmin whips his head to Minghao. “Hao…” he starts, and then he collapses into Minghao’s arms, circling his own around Minghao’s middle and practically crushing his ribs with the force of it. “Thank you,” he exhales. “Thank you.”</p><p>Minghao holds him, cradling the back of his head in his palm. “Thank you for trusting me to do it.”</p><p>Seokmin sways them side to side and then leans his head away to look back at the painting. He’s quiet, staring and studying, and he doesn’t close his eyes when he lays his head on Minghao’s chest. Staring to make up for lost time with himself. </p><p>Not nearly enough, but a start.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>Minghao’s bags are packed aside from what he needs tomorrow. Seungkwan has him on a flight leaving for Seoul in the early morning. Which means Seokmin will be asleep when he has to go. Which means they only have a few hours left together.</p><p>The sunset comes later and later every day. When Minghao first arrived, Seokmin would wake up sometime after five o’clock. Now it’s nearing six and Seokmin is on his stomach on his side of the bed, hair a nest on his head, bare skinned and the blankets in a pool around his ankles.</p><p>Minghao sits in the bed with his sketchbook on his lap. </p><p>In a few hours he won’t be able to look at Seokmin’s bare skin for himself anymore. He won’t be able to walk up the stairs in the middle of the day to find Seokmin naked, the way he left him the night before. Or lift Seokmin’s shirt on the couch just to see the fine hairs under his belly button disappearing underneath the elastic waistband of his briefs.</p><p>So he does what he can to capture the memory. </p><p>If he were to take a picture, there’d be a blur where Seokmin is supposed to be. A marred amalgamation of color that suggests a person is there, but not clear enough to be sure. Minghao has never been so grateful for his artistic ability.</p><p>He’s shading the contours of Seokmin’s back when Seokmin finally stirs awake. The slight rustling of sheets is a precursor to Seokmin’s gritty voice. “Hello,” he says. His cheek is still against the pillow, a dazed smile on his face. His hand circles Minghao’s ankle. “What are you doing?”</p><p>“Hello,” Minghao replies. He glances up to return the smile and then drops back down to his book. “I’m drawing.”</p><p>“Me?”</p><p>“Mm.”</p><p>“Naked?” Seokmin’s tone pinches and his thumb presses into Minghao’s shin.</p><p>Minghao’s cheeks start to prickle. “Yes.”</p><p>Seokmin sits up in the bed, reserved in his own nakedness, and gathers the sheets at his feet into his lap. He scoots himself closer to where Minghao is propped up against the pillows, looking down at the book timidly as if Minghao isn’t holding it out for him to take a look for himself.</p><p>Minghao brings his knees up to rest the sketchbook on his thighs and wraps one arm around Seokmin. He flips to the first page of the book with this other hand - almost filled after so many weeks. “Let’s start from the beginning. I bought a new one before I left Seoul.”</p><p>He smooths his hands over the first page. It’s a simple landscape, the volcanic rock and wind turbines in the sea on the other side of the highway. Seokmin holds the page open so he can get a better look. “Hao, this is so beautiful,” he says. </p><p>The sketch is messy, as are the ones that follow. Tiny tidal pools in the valleys of coastal rock, the wind turbines in their neat little row. He turns from page to page until he finally finds Seokmin. “Ah,” he says, glancing at Seokmin. “Here are my practice sketches of you.”</p><p>“Wow,” Seokmin says in amazement. </p><p>Minghao traces over Seokmin’s expressions through the pages. He drags his thumbnail over Seokmin smiling, dipping it in a little harder over the messier sketch of Seokmin beginning to cry. He wishes he could give Seokmin a better view of himself like this, spend time like he had on the painting downstairs. </p><p>“I have such a big mouth,” Seokmin sighs. He points at one of the drawings where he’s smiling. “God...my nose.”</p><p>“Hush. They’re some of the best parts about you.” Minghao looks down at Seokmin and Seokmin clamps his mouth shut, a blush rising on his cheeks. </p><p>He takes Seokmin through pages and Minghao becomes aware of the shift. Simple studies of Seokmin’s face interspersed with drawings of the coastline become studies of Seokmin’s mouth, the details of the wrinkles in his lips, the jut of his fangs.</p><p>Seokmin shifts in his spot. “Is this the night you were drawing my mouth?”</p><p>Minghao makes an aborted sound of confirmation. </p><p>Seokmin plays with his bottom lip, digs the pad of his thumb into his teeth. “There are so many drawings of my teeth.”</p><p>“Yes,” Minghao manages to say. </p><p>He turns the pages until he starts finding more of Seokmin. The most recent drawings, the ones Seokmin hadn’t posed for. Seokmin curled up in bed. Seokmin’s belly framed by sheets, the apex of his rib cage made hollow as he breathes in. Seokmin naked on his side, arm tucked under his cheek, cock soft and resting on his thigh. </p><p>Minghao can hear Seokmin’s throat stick when he swallows. He’s hyper aware of when Seokmin’s skin is pressed against his arm, where his hand has slipped and come to rest on the back of Seokmin’s neck. </p><p>“Wow,” Seokmin says again, voice as taut as a bowstring. “I didn’t know you were drawing me like this so much.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Minghao whispers. “Did I make you uncomfortable?”</p><p>“No!” Seokmin rushes to say. He quiets himself, folding into Minghao’s side as he looks at the pictures. “N-no. I...I’m just…” He laughs breathlessly. “I don’t know what to say. I’m…”</p><p>“Shy?” Minghao says, looking down at him. </p><p>Seokmin nods, eyes still on the book. He touches one of the sketches of his back, the perspective set from above to capture the swell of his spread thighs. It’s probably the most risque drawing Minghao has in the entire sketchbook, intimate and exposing - for both of them, really. </p><p>Minghao brushes his fingers against the short hairs on Seokmin’s nape, stomach constricting when Seokmin's leg twitches under the covers. “I’m...not used to seeing myself at all...this is…” Seokmin says, voice small, finally turning to look Minghao in the eye.</p><p>There are things left unsaid. Minghao glides his fingertips over the arch of Seokmin’s eyebrow before cradling his cheek, tipping his face up so he can plant a kiss on his slack mouth. Seokmin kisses him in halves, settling back onto the pillows in an invitation for Minghao to take the lead. An animal showing its belly. </p><p>Minghao sits up above him, tugging the sheets away from his hips so he can have him on full display. Seokmin’s eyelashes flutter, mouth parting as he rests his wrists on his forehead.</p><p>He slides his hands up the trunk of Seokmin’s torso, pressing inwards until the skin gives way. For all the way he’s drawn him, nothing can compare to the feeling of Seokmin’s breath lurching, the smoothness of his skin and the bones Minghao can feel underneath of it. Seokmin’s chest expands while Minghao touches, releasing only when Minghao takes his hands away.</p><p>“Want you,” Seokmin gasps. His forearm obscures one of his eyes. “Minghao, before you leave.”</p><p>They haven’t had sex yet. Seokmin has had his mouth on almost every inch of Minghao’s skin, but that line hasn’t been crossed.</p><p>“Want you, too,” Minghao says. He trains his eyes on Seokmin’s face, reaching out to delicately move Seokmin’s arms away from covering it. Minghao holds both of his hands, squeezing them in his own. “How do you want me?”</p><p>“You inside me,” Seokmin says, licking his lips. </p><p>Minghao takes his time opening Seokmin with his fingers, slowly to allow Seokmin to adjust to the stretch, because Seokmin offers him the lube by saying he hasn’t had somebody inside of him for fifteen years. It’s a delirious, whirling, head-rushing feeling that Seokmin can trust him with so much and Minghao isn’t sure how to return the favor.</p><p>He mouths at Seokmin’s cock only as a distraction from the discomfort. Seokmin is too sensitive for anything more. He’s a compound fracture of a person, split open and vulnerable in so many ways, but most of all like this. Minghao’s hand pushes his inner thigh up and out of the way, crowning the tip of his cock with open mouthed kisses, scissoring two fingers inside of him. Seokmin writhes on the bed, panting hard enough Minghao can see his fangs catching in the lamplight when he tips his head back all the way on the pillow.</p><p>“<em> Bǎobèi </em>, are you alright?” Minghao says against pelvic bone. He hasn’t used any sort of term of endearment before, but it feels right in this moment. Seokmin whines and nods in response, fingers gripping onto the sheets at his sides like he’s afraid of what they’ll do otherwise. </p><p>Seokmin’s body feels like any other body. He’s inconceivably hot where Minghao’s fingers are inside of him, tight and resisting when Minghao nudges in a third. He responds to the stimuli like a human would, shaking and hands flying up to push at Minghao’s head when he sucks on the head of his cock. </p><p>But as he pulls Seokmin to straddle his hips while he lays flat on the bed, as Minghao holds the base of his own cock so Seokmin can bear down onto it, he recognizes that Seokmin isn’t an ordinary body. Seokmin bites at his own bottom lip until his fangs threaten to pierce through and Minghao can’t forget that Seokmin is his natural predator, willingly giving up his biological superiority.</p><p>He grasps Seokmin’s hips, helping him stay upright by the way his thighs are quivering. Seokmin’s eyes are squeezed shut, working through the burn, but his mouth has fallen open as he sinks down further. Every centimeter more is another knock against Minghao’s stable patience. </p><p>He wants to live inside of him like this. Seokmin trembling with over half of Minghao’s length to go, soft clipped sounds percolating in the back of his throat, short eyelashes disappearing into the compress of his eyelids. Minghao can feel the love he’s been certain of with a new, stifling clarity.</p><p>Minghao props himself up on his palms until he can sit up, Seokmin whining softly and eyes flying open at the sudden shifting angle. Minghao cups his cheek in one hand and draws their mouths together, kissing Seokmin, letting his bottom lip catch lazily on Seokmin’s fangs.</p><p>Seokmin sighs once he’s finally seated and wraps his arms around Minghao’s neck. Minghao places his hand flat to Seokmin’s lower back and presses their stomachs together, Seokmin’s cock trapped between their navels. They’re still, foreheads tipped together while Seokmin catches his breath against Minghao’s mouth.</p><p>The first grind of Seokmin’s hips is experimental. It draws a soft “<em> oh </em>” from his mouth and he tightens around Minghao reflexively, making Minghao grunt and pull Seokmin even closer. Seokmin draws back to look him in the eyes as he grinds down again, using the momentum to lift his hips out of Minghao’s lap and drop them back into place indelicately. </p><p>Minghao throws his hand back to join the other on the bed to keep himself upright. Seokmin watches him as he lifts and drops again, brows drawn up, a short hiccup of a moan undercut by the slap of their skin. Minghao keeps his eyes on Seokmin until Seokmin starts to blush and Minghao is smiling as Seokmin buries his face into Minghao’s shoulder to hide it. Always so shy.</p><p>Seokmin sets the pace. He’s so slow at first, trying to adjust to the feeling and trying to find the best angle to work himself as fast as he clearly wants to go. Minghao’s stomach flutters at his enthusiasm, the hot puffs of breath against his collarbone when Seokmin starts moving a little faster. He can feel the tension of his core, in his thighs, lifting himself with his body rather than with the arms around Minghao’s neck as if he doesn’t want to hurt him.</p><p>Minghao hasn’t ever been particularly loud during sex, but Seokmin is undeniably encouraged by every sigh he drags out of Minghao, each quiet noise responded to with one of Seokmin’s own, the quickening of his pace. Seokmin moves from Minghao’s collarbone to the crook of his neck where he goes from panting over Minghao’s jugular to mouthing at it, tongue laving over it, and Minghao distantly realizes he isn’t being so quiet anymore.</p><p>He perilously reaches up to put a hand in Seokmin’s hair, trying his best not to get knocked around by the substantial size difference, and presses Seokmin’s mouth closer to his skin. Seokmin gasps at the insistence, mouth falling open until his bottom row of teeth snags on Minghao’s tendon, fangs pressing higher up with the flat side against his carotid artery.</p><p>Seokmin groans, a low rumble from his belly, nails digging into Minghao’s back. And it’s not just speculation. Minghao can feel the way he hesitates, hips stilling and mouth poised over the side of Minghao’s neck. His pulse is slamming against his skin like it’s calling to Seokmin, too.</p><p>Seokmin leans away with his eyes closed and untangles his arms from Minghao’s shoulders so he can put his hands on Minghao’s chest. He creates a small distance between then and breathes through his nose. Long drawing breaths, in and out to calm himself. Minghao looks over his face and knocks his knuckles against Seokmin’s chin - he means it to be gentle, but his hands are so unsteady that he’s clumsy about it.</p><p>“Seokmin?” he asks and Seokmin shakes his head in response, eyes still closed.</p><p>Minghao swallows. “Look at me, <em> bǎobèi </em>.” A gentle demand.</p><p>The whites of Seokmin’s eyes are gone when he opens them, replaced with the same pitch black that Minghao had seen weeks ago when Seokmin was feeding. He looks guilty. Minghao’s stomach clenches with something his brain associates with fear, but it’s more complicated than that. </p><p>“Seokmin,” Minghao murmurs. He cups his cheek, thumb resting in the corner of Seokmin’s mouth. “It’s alright.”</p><p>Seokmin shakes his head again blinking like he’s trying to shake the darkness in his eyes away. “It’s not.”</p><p>“It is,” Minghao insists. “It’s alright. You...you can do it.”</p><p>Seokmin’s gaze snaps back to him, eyebrows drawing together. His throat bobs. “What?”</p><p>Heat scalds Minghao’s face, heart picking up. “You can bite me.” He presses the tip of his thumb into the edge of Seokmin’s top lip. “I want you to,” he adds quietly.</p><p>Seokmin leans into the touch, lip curling upwards until the pad of Minghao’s thumb is resting directly on his fang. The conflict is all over his face, lips twitching but forehead wrinkled with worry. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says finally.</p><p>“Please,” Minghao begs. “I trust you.” </p><p>He demonstrates it by lifting the edge of his wrist upwards, arm bending at ninety degrees, until it rests in the curvature under Seokmin’s bottom lip. An offering, heartbeat acting as an incentive. Seokmin’s breath falters on the exhale, hot against Minghao’s proffered skin, and he looks at Minghao like he’s still trying to decide.</p><p>Minghao waits. </p><p>Seokmin holds the back of Minghao’s hand with both of his own and looks at him from under his eyelashes. His fingers worry over Minghao’s skin. “If it’s too much….you have to stop me.”</p><p>“I will,” Minghao promises. </p><p>Seokmin licks his lips and tips his head back as he pulls his top lip above his row of teeth. In a split second, Minghao feels pinned there. Trapped under Seokmin’s black eyes and wide open jaw, fangs primed over the thin, delicate skin of his wrist. </p><p>And then Minghao can’t think of anything else at all.</p><p>The pain is immense. </p><p>He loses his balance on his arm and falls back onto his elbow, mouth locked open in a silent gasp. Staggering pain, shooting straight up to his elbow and pulsing through his shoulder. Seokmin’s teeth <em> are </em> sharp, but not sharp enough to sink through the skin cleanly and the pain only worsens when Seokmin pulls his arm even closer and <em> sucks </em> enough to bring all the blood to the surface.</p><p>Seokmin groans, Minghao can only just hear it through the blood rushing in his ears. There’s a long suspended moment of him still sucking, seam of his mouth firm around Minghao’s wrist, and then he pulls his teeth free. Minghao makes a garbled noise, slipping back into Chinese and saying something he’s not even sure has meaning, but it still catches Seokmin’s attention.</p><p>The person looking back at him is only partially Seokmin. Everything about him is suddenly so <em> sharp </em>. His eyes are narrowed, fingernails bending against Minghao’s forearm, fangs still dragging against where Minghao’s skin is tender and disturbed. </p><p>Then he sucks again, only this time his tongue laves over the skin in tandem, making a messy wet noise. Blood tickles down Minghao’s forearm, seeping out from the corners of Seokmin’s mouth. Seokmin’s eyelids flutter and he licks from Minghao’s elbow to back up to the open wound, hungry and overeager, clenching down on Minghao’s cock.</p><p>And the pain gives way to something else.</p><p>Seokmin starts to move his hips again. Short little swivels, grinding more than anything, but everything unassertive about him is gone. Minghao is inside him, but it’s almost like a means to an end. He rocks slowly, mouth sliding over the wetness on Minghao’s arm, drinking him down as he looks down at Minghao with wide, inky eyes.</p><p>It doesn’t hurt anymore, only a dull ache Minghao is only distantly aware of. Instead it’s just mesmerizing. The same sunny boy he’s been loving all along taking from Minghao, feeding from Minghao, subsisted by Minghao.</p><p>He’s messy and doesn’t seem to care much about it. Blood is dripping down onto Minghao’s belly, down Seokmin’s chin, hot and wet. What Seokmin misses with his mouth he chases with his tongue, each time revealing the stain of red on his chin, across his lips. It’s stunning. Baroque drama in scarlet reds and tan skin and a mostly dark bedroom, shadows on Seokmin’s face shifting as he starts to ride Minghao again in earnest.</p><p>Minghao moans deep in his chest and lets Seokmin take.</p><p>Seokmin swipes two fingers over the blood droplets on Minghao’s stomach, smearing their color on his skin, and then he sticks his fingers into his mouth. He sucks on them, closing his eyes and making a satisfied noise until he draws them out with a pop. The whole room smells metallic, blood is still dripping down Minghao’s wrist.</p><p>“You taste...” Seokmin sighs, hips slowing, speaking for the first time after minutes. His voice is thick, like he’s got blood sticking in the back of his throat, congealing there. “You taste so good.”</p><p>Minghao moans softly. He feels drunk, a little woozy. He plants his feet flat on the bed, bending his legs at the knee, so he can start to nudge his hips upwards. The hand Seokmin isn’t holding comes to grasp Seokmin’s cock, wet with a rivulet of precome down the side. He swirls his thumb over it and Seokmin tightens his grip on Minghao’s wrist.</p><p>“Do I?” Minghao asks. </p><p>“Yes,” Seokmin breathes. He emphasizes it by licking the blood beading up on the fangpricks, smudging his lips across it until it transfers to his mouth. </p><p>Seokmin keeps hold of his wrist, but leans forward on his hand pressed to Minghao’s chest. The angle puts him more in the light and Minghao can finally see just how much blood there is. </p><p>They’re <em> both </em>covered in it. Seokmin’s cheeks and chin are tinted red. There are patches of red on his chest and on his neck, blotches of it on both of their stomachs and on both of their hands. It should be horrifying, disgusting. Minghao snaps his hips up and Seokmin moans.</p><p>He starts matching Minghao on the downstroke and their skin slaps together between each punched out noise he yanks out of Seokmin. Minghao is so close already. He would have thought the pain would have set him further away from coming, but he’s so close he’s trying to fight it off until he can make Seokmin come first. </p><p>Which isn’t far off. Seokmin’s thighs are twitching, pressing into Minghao’s sides too tightly. His voice pitches higher and higher. Minghao is good at studying people, Seokmin is always so ready to be studied.</p><p>Seokmin comes with a bitten off shout, back arching and spilling over the red tinged skin of Minghao’s belly. Minghao wishes he could paint <em> this </em>. Seokmin’s full torso presented to him, colored in burgundy and mottled dry-blood browns, hair wet with sweat and plastered to his forehead. The hand he has on Minghao’s still bleeding wrist is loose and his lip is curling over his fangs in a way Minghao has never seen.</p><p>He snaps back to reality by collapsing down on Minghao’s chest. His eyes are still black, but they’re softer now, and they bore into Minghao’s before he kisses him.</p><p>Minghao makes a stifled noise at the intrusive taste of copper. Surreal that it’s his taste coating Seokmin’s tongue and lips, his blood filling Seokmin. Seokmin kisses him sloppy until there’s no doubt red staining both of their mouths and chins, and Seokmin doesn’t seem to care that he’s hypersensitive. He fucks himself back onto Minghao with effort, disoriented from overstimulation. Giving to Minghao after taking so much.</p><p>Minghao wraps his arms around Seokmin as he comes, bodies curving in on each other, seeking out to be even closer despite how much of Minghao is inside Seokmin. It is the absolute hardest he’s ever come in his life. He blames the blood loss for making it send his head spinning, how it makes him tense up and go completely weak after he’s done.</p><p>Seokmin pets his cheeks and the heat of his palms makes Minghao realize how cold his skin feels. </p><p>“Hao,” Seokmin says. He lifts his body off of Minghao’s cock and then settles on his knees at Minghao’s side. He’s holding firmly to Minghao’s wrist to stop the blood flow and Minghao can feel his own pulse in the wound. Throbbing and grounding. </p><p>Minghao opens his eyes to see that Seokmin’s have gone back to normal. </p><p>“Thank you,” Minghao breathes, and his eyes slide shut.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>Seokmin has been doting on Minghao for weeks, but nothing compares to this.</p><p>He helps bathe them until they aren’t stained in Minghao’s blood. He sits Minghao on the edge of the bed and helps him dress, frets over cleaning out the wound with alcohol and wraps gauze around it. <em> Keep it clean, </em> he says. <em> Or it will scar. </em></p><p>Minghao watches him fondly as he wraps Minghao in blankets on the couch. <em> Your body temperature drops after </em> . He places too much food for Minghao to possibly eat on the coffee table. <em> Your body is low on iron </em>. It makes Minghao laugh under his breath how Seokmin’s mouth opens each time Minghao goes to take a bite. Like people do when they’re feeding a baby.</p><p>“Seokmin, I’m fine,” Minghao swears. He plants a quick kiss on his cheek, offers him a closed lip smile. “You’re worrying too much.” </p><p>Seokmin slides a bit closer so they’re touching, tugging the blanket over both of them. He rubs Minghao’s back. “Eat more.”</p><p>Minghao raises his eyebrows.</p><p>“Please. For me,” Seokmin says. Minghao can’t deny his puppy eyes.</p><p>Minghao can’t argue that eating does make him feel better. He’s frustrated at how drained of energy he still manages to feel. It’s only nine o’clock, but his eyes feel heavy and every time he moves it feels like it’s taking every effort. He doesn’t want to sleep. Not now, not knowing he has to leave.</p><p>Gradually, he allows himself to be beleaguered in Seokmin’s arms. A variety show on television is playing at a low volume, Minghao is too exhausted to translate it in his head. It doesn’t help how tired he feels - Seokmin positions them so Minghao is laying on his chest, playing with the ends of his hair - but it does help him feel less dizzy.</p><p>He wonders why he has to go at all.</p><p>But Minghao has worked so hard for his career. And his career exists in Seoul. His studio, his friends, his prospects. There’s an email in his inbox with an offer from a gallery in Insadong that wants to collaborate on an installation in the spring. It’s an opportunity he can’t pass up and Seungkwan is still negotiating.</p><p>And it’s not fair to call it a <em> career </em>. Art is his life. He’d have nothing without it. A sea without water.</p><p>It’s nonsensical to give that up for a man he’s only known for a month, as reluctant as he is to leave him. He recognizes that heartbreak in both of them. </p><p>“The first time is always the hardest,” Seokmin says eventually, making Minghao stir. “It helps if you prepare yourself a little better before, but…”</p><p>Minghao laughs softly. “Next time,” he decides to say. </p><p>“Next time?” </p><p>“Mm,” Minghao says. He nuzzles into Seokmin’s chest. In his periphery he can see all his bags stacked by the stairs. Seokmin had insisted he take one of his suitcases so he could take some of the new oil paints home, an extra bag of oranges courtesy of Mrs. Kim. His eyesight is fuzzy at the edges. It’ll be the earliest he’s fallen asleep in weeks.</p><p>Minghao runs his fingers over Seokmin’s knuckles. In the creases there’s still flecks of Minghao’s dried blood. Under Minghao’s fingernails there’s dried paint in the soft orange undertones of Seokmin’s skin. </p><p>“Next time.”</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>He takes a photo of the sun rising along the water as a taxi takes him into Jeju-Do. Sunrise is different than the sunsets. Violet and lavender. </p><p>In the airport terminal, instead of the picture of the sunrise, he sends his mother a picture of the completed portrait.</p><p><em> Goodness, he’s handsome </em> , she says. <em> Who is he?  </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a href="https://twitter.com/lithomancy">my twitter</a> / <a href="https://curiouscat.qa/lithomancy">my curiouscat</a></p>
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